Attack on Titan: Caged No More - A Grim Reminder (1) (Ongoing)
by Eurydice II of Macedon
Summary: (Canon AU novelization utilizing all related materials). The Year is 845. The world is cruel. Humanity has been beset by monsters known as Titans for a hundred years; a seemingly endless tide. Everything changes when they are given a grim reminder of what it means to be locked in a cage. A girl reawakens. A girl fights back. And a harsh mistress is born. This is Part 1 of Act 1.
1. Author Note and Cast

**A / N:** This is the first half of Grim Reminder, part one of Caged No More, a complete retelling of Attack on Titan told from the perspective of its secondary main and minor characters.

This first half focuses on the events immediately following and up to a year after the Fall of Wall Maria in the manga's storyline. It utilizes and expands upon, primarily, the Harsh Mistress of the City side novels but also the dilemmas of Ymir and Historia.

Before reading, I just want everyone to know that until a certain point the story will closely follow the manga's events and be somewhat slow going along. Relationships between characters will be emphasized and elaborated, meaning friendships and rivalries, not just romances. Have fun reading and any feedback is appreciated (meaning, review and give constructive criticism/your thoughts). I can also discuss about anything and everything involving Attack on Titan, if anyone wants to they can PM me; I've delved into the world a ton to get a firm grasp on what I'm writing.

Cover art by Azumahigure on DeviantArt.

* * *

A village vanishes without a trace, leaving a small child as its only survivor. This child blossoms into woman who unites the world with a mysterious power and becomes a mighty queen. Years pass. All is peaceful, all is quiet, all is calm, until she is usurped, her power split nine, and the world is plunged into a great war. Many years pass. The child is reborn. Her name is Ymir.

The world is cruel. Humanity has been beset by monsters known as Titans for a hundred years; a seemingly endless tide. Nobody knows where they came from, what their purpose is, and, most of all, how to effectively end them once and for all. In desperation, the people hid themselves behind three fifty meter walls for their protection, thinking themselves safe for those hundred years. Yet, they were being kept in the dark for the inevitable.

Everything changes when they are given a grim reminder of what it means to be locked in a cage.

The Year is 845.

Will humanity ever learn the origin of the Titans? Will its reluctant heroes survive in a world that resents and curses them to their crimson strings of fate, or will those strings be severed forever?

* * *

 **Point of View characters:**

Mathias Kramer - heir to the Kramer Merchant Association; Rita's childhood friend

Rita Iglehaut - member of the Garrison Regiment, West Division (Quinta); Mathias's childhood friend

Gabriel - member of the First Interior Squad

Historia Reiss / Krista Lenz - refugee

Ymir - refugee

* * *

 **Other characters**

Achi Almen - refugee

Ada - survivor outside the Walls

Taki - leader of the survivors outside the Walls

Amanda - member of the Garrison Regiment, West Division (Quinta); Rita's best friend

Doris Iglehaut - Rita's adoptive mother

Henning Iglehaut - Rita's adoptive father

Ducio - member of the Garrison Regiment, West Division (Quinta); Rita's assistant

Wilco - member of the Garrison Regiment, West Division (Quinta)

Bernhardt - leader of the outlaws

Jarratt - member of the outlaws

Klaus - member of the outlaws

Nikki - member of the outlaws

Suzanne - servant of the Kramer family; Mathias's tutor

Jörg Kramer - Mathias's father

Isolde Lenz - farmer; caretaker of Achi and Historia

"Baggy-pants" Leon - member of the Garrison Regiment, West Division (Fuerth)

* * *

 **Rating based upon the source material(s). May change to Mature (M) later on. Story originally started in December of 2012. Restarted February of 2016. Re-published April of 2017. Being re-written and continued as of January 2018. No copyright claims. Etc. etc.**


	2. Prologue

**Prologue**

In a time lost to the pages of history, in a land where the recent emergence of science outweighed a centuries long reign of the enigma of faith, war was the one and only constant; endless and without pause. Every nation vying for more, expanding upon their once god-granted rights under new banners, turning once lush and lively regions to desolate desert wastes where no man would ever walk again. Poisoning the land further with the even more destructive seeds of death and decay, the people caught in the crossfire, their citizens, their subjects, were forced to live in fear, forced to flee in terror, and it was when an entire village seemingly vanished overnight without so much as a trace, a faint whisper of dark deeds done on a dark night, leaving one meek, insignificant, but wrathful child as its only survivor, that this changed forever.

Alone and forced to fend for herself, after a lifetime spent in ruined and war-torn lands and much hardship, this child blossomed into a woman who united the world with a mysterious power and became a mighty ruler. This woman was named Ymir Fritz, and unlike those before her, she ruled benevolently, with her mind close to her heart, ever beating in favor of those less fortunate, of those less able to pull themselves from the tragedy of war; ever bleeding for those who sought to continue the tyranny of the past, the disappearance of hopes and dreams for so much as to fill their chests and stomachs with greed.

She spent a long time rebuilding the world in her image; thirteen grueling years of using a gift many perceived as a curse, a black murmur of the past back to punish the world that had abandoned it, passed before all was peaceful, all was quiet, all was calm, until she was usurped—murdered in her sleep when her eyes were shut—her body disemboweled and decapitated and her mysterious power split nine, the world plunged into a great war that lasted a lifetime longer than she herself had lived. Its victors rewrote history, the defeated ousted, butchered, and enslaved as the world came back under the thumb of oppression and savagery until history dared repeat itself again. Another rebellion, another great war, colossal, violent, and more devastating than the last; another beheading, a new victor, the shackling of the old, and, in the midst of this all, the child that was reborn.

But, the world… the world was unforgiving.

Its wounds never healed and the scars tarnishing its surface left it puckered and sore with horrendous, atrocities galore.

The child was taken, growing up beaten and bruised, then sacrificed for the greater good before her rule truly had a chance to begin.

The year is 845, and the world was still cruel.

Humanity has been beset by monsters known as Titans for a hundred years. A seemingly endless tide of giant, humanoid devourers that managed to wipe out all life save for a lucky few, and nobody knew where they originated from, what their purpose was, and, most important, most dire, how to effectively end them once and for all. So, in desperation, these lucky few shut themselves behind three fifty meter high walls for their own protection, thinking themselves safe. Only, they were being kept in the dark, gathered like cattle in cages for the inevitable until, one day, one red-colored, quiet, unassuming morning after dawn, this all changed when they were given a grim reminder of what it meant to be locked away.

And, in the midst of it, a child is reborn.

All she remembers is the blood, tissue, and bone. All she remembers is the torment of the mindless. All she remembers is the face that haunts, the face that always reminds her of the cruelty of the world. That it always has been and that it always will be; that it should always be held in a certain light, and that she was never meant to be born, molding herself as someone who was nothing, who thought herself worthless. Crimson nightmares, bringing death, the world her enemy, her string, and her fate. A causality in a world which resented and cursed her as it always would.

So, the girl ran away from her fate and the world, in retaliation, in retribution, started its end, but, the child, the girl, she kept running, and running, and...


	3. Keep Moving

**A / N:** Part One, Act One. The full illustrated version can be found on Archive of Our Own, complete with cover, chapter, and character illustrations by various artists under the same name.

Cover art by Hatsuraikun on Deviantart.

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Keep Moving**

Running.

Running, running, running away.

She wanted to keep running further and further away. Though, her legs wouldn't carry her anymore, and so the girl fell.

The ground began to shake.

She tried to stand, desperately tried, but her arms wouldn't move, either. She was forced to listen as it got closer, and closer, and closer still, until its shadow loomed over her and something, something sharp, hooked underneath the skin of her back. It hoisted her up and she cried out in pain. Unthinkable pain, as its teeth sunk into her legs, ripping into her, tearing up to her waist. It gouged on her innards, pulling them out as she vomited blood. Spitting and coughing, juices spilled down her chin. They dripped onto her chest as upward still its hunger moved. Her ribs were crushed when it reached her chest, and gasping for air while she tried to suck in more, her heart was about to burst, veins clotted from the strain. Ready to explode, she let out a scream that died in her throat.

The world became dark.

Frightened awake by the horror in her mind, the girl slammed the back of her head into a tree, delirious. Nauseous. Standing to her feet, she wanted to throw up, and looked down at her hands.

They were normal. Normal, human hands.

She winced, feeling something wet, something red.

Blood .

She was bleeding, and laughed, tears falling from her face. Staring at her now bloodstained fingers, she stuck them down her throat, wanting to gag. Wanting her past to wash away with her tears. Though, she had to keep moving, and drew her bloody, saliva-covered hand across the tree. She didn't want to go back to the way she was. Didn't want to be that way again, and agony split through her skull. Her vision was filled with blinding shades of red; scarlet flashes of pain as she tried to expel the monster from her mind. As she tried to remember it: her name.

But, she had to keep moving, and stumbled on, wandering the wilds, fighting her hunger, fighting the urge, the scent of it, and—now wiping those bloody, saliva-covered fingers into blackened, slushy mud, her nails scraping the hard soil beneath—the blood which still licked her tongue. The blood of innocents, the blood of the damned, the blood of the dead. She heaved. Harsh, ragged gasps of dry air, spittle drooling from her mouth, sticking to her skin, and nothing more, as, with them, came again those images of panic and fright. They crept back into her mind, like a caged beast roused from its black slumber. And, the sounds, too. Crawling up her throat like a worm toward the surface. She felt it, wriggling around, working their way, working their way, up, and up …

The girl curled into a fetal position on the wet ground, as if doing so would make them go away—make them disappear. And, lying there, finally, she vomited. It seeped into her hair, her clothing, her skin. Soaking her, as that haunting voice of hunger whispered into her ear. But, of course, they were still there.

She chuckled to herself.

At her own stupidity.

Of course they wouldn't simply disappear; seared and branded into her brain forever. The smoldering remains, smoke billowing toward that red sky. Red as the blood on her once clawed hands as they dug into the ground, her small, beady black eyes staring down upon them against the sun: her prey. How she snatched one, the rest running for their lives in her wake. Its insignificant whimpering. Garbled noises made dangling above her head as her jaws widened. Biting down, the taste, the feeling. Blood —swallowing, spitting, devouring, savoring—and bone— snapping, breaking, pulverizing, crushing.

These memories assaulted her and she buried her face into the earth to suffocate them, to overcome them, only to collapse from their weight.

And, outside that decimated village, a gathering of monsters much like her self stood waiting, watching her every move. They began to speak. Childish attempts at communicating their thoughts into one word. The word being spoken to her. The word being chanted to her. Repeated. Repeated. Repeated. Over, and over, and over .

Hands shaking, mind breaking, the girl concentrated all her thoughts on that one word—that one desire to know her name—and sunk her teeth so deep into her hand she hit bone to keep from howling because of the pain. Except, nothing happened. Nothing, except, more pain. More blood. More vomit, as another memory came to her: a shelter of light within a distant, dark dream. Of someone caring and kind. Someone who told her that no matter how painful it was, that she must keep moving. That she needed to get back on her feet and keep moving.

She listened.

Pushing herself up and staring at the messing of her face in the mud, she couldn't die here and scratching and tearing herself on thorns, continued following a path overgrown by time until she reached it: a shelter of light.

Though, unlike the one pictured in her mind, dredged up from that quiet darkness, this one was in ruins. Ravaged, raped, despoiled—just a shell of what it'd been, and she was afraid of what lay inside, lurking, and would've moved past it, continue even further on, if not for that voice. Oh, that gentle, loving voice, beckoning her from that dark. It persuaded her otherwise. Intimidated, pressured, pushed , even. And that same voice—that someone, caring and kind, turning vile and cruel, ordering her forward. Into that darkness, into that unknown, to brave the peril, swallow her dread, and conquer her own fears. It shouted. Screamed. Keep moving, keep moving .

And, before she realized it, her body was at its splintered doors, arms weakly creaking them open, blood rushing through her veins as her heart pounded in her ears. Thump. Thump. Thump . She had to keep moving, and forced her way inside, tripping, tumbling on.

Falling in a dusty heap, eyes to a collapsed ceiling above, nothing moved, nothing stirred.

Only silence reigned.

The voice that spoke to her faded in kind. Eventually, she caught her breath and sat up on one of the old and rotten wooden pews lining either side of her, assessing even in her own collapsed state a lone podium flanked by two large statues at the front of the room. Behind them, was an altar, and slowly, but surely, she continued her way towards it and, reaching it in time, its worn and aged plaque, rusted and cracked, was cold to the touch. Small dark shapes began to appear as her vision cleared. Knowing them to be letters, she stepped back and squinted, trying to sound out the word they formed. Though, she couldn't, and, instead, looked at them again, closer—the statues. The depiction of what they were. What they were called—long abandoned, long forgotten, only, she couldn't, she was so very tired...

The girl doubled over beside the podium.

It was hollow in back.

Scrunching herself into the void space, she put her knees up against her chest and rested her chin on top of her hands, an infant inside her mother's pregnant womb, eyelids heavy for the first time in what felt like ages, and it wasn't long before she was fast asleep.


	4. The Fall

**Chapter 3: The Fall**

Their frontline had been slaughtered in the blink of an eye.

The majority of the second had fled at the mere sight of the horror they were about to face: Titans. Gigantic, unclothed monsters with no glint of sentience in their dark eyes.

Astride her horse in the outlying town, Rita Iglehaut, a member in the third, felt her stomach churn as these monsters, these skin-wearing mockeries of themselves, twisted and tortured shapes, towered over the survivors of both with blood-letting glee, pulling them apart and gouging on their insides and devouring them whole.

She swallowed.

Dozens of wagons were still thundering frantically for the gates, fleeing across the open plains, kicking clouds of dust behind them as the artillery along the walls rang out, bombarding the advancing Titans, putting holes through their bodies, blasting apart their limbs, and turning their heads to mush. Steam exhausted from their corpses, forms contorting and conforming and repairing themselves to rise again; these seemingly unkillable, ever-hungering mindless hunks of flesh.

There was no hope for the people in the wagons, and, yet, her commander had ordered them to cover their retreat. Protect and escort as many of them as possible inside Quinta, while he and the rest of the senior members of Quinta's Garrison dealt with the Titans near the gate at she and her fellow rookies' backs.

Next to her, Amanda straddled her own horse, a low whistle escaping her lips as one of the wagons was knocked into the air, its occupants thrown free and slamming into the ground below with distinct, heart-stopping thuds. The Titans converged on the overturned wagon in a frenzy, ignoring the whining horses with broken legs and going straight for the screaming people with broken limbs. The blue sky turned red as the remaining wagons gave it a wide berth.

Rita glanced back at the town, catching a glimpse of a soldier with three Titans giving chase, galloping in sight of artillery and careening away in time for them to blow their legs off, others swinging in to finish them by hacking at the nape of their necks—the only proven way to kill them for good—and, hearing an ear-piercing cry among the crowd of Titans, crying out for help, turning back to her fellow rookies, all of them shared the same face of dread.

It was up to them now. They had to go out there. There wasn't any other choice.

So, they charged, making a beeline for the overturned wagon, the cannons at the wall covering their advance as they met the Titans, attempting to grab any survivors and then retreat to the remaining wagons. But, most of them were really just trying to stay alive.

Galloping alongside Amanda, Rita readied one of her blades and put her head down, the wind bitingly cold against her exposed ears, managing to evade one of the Titans stretching an arm towards her by slipping under its legs and coming out the other side. She spotted a man trapped beneath the body of a horse and a girl cowering not many feet away, somehow unnoticed by the monsters surrounding them.

Riding up to them with Amanda still by her side, Rita hopped off her horse and crouched down to help the man, trying in vain to lift the horse's body off him, when Amanda grabbed her harshly by the collar of her uniform and threw her to the ground, chastising her for the attempt.

"Leave him!" she roared, herself and her blade covered in blood. Steam billowed from both, indicating that the blood was of a Titan's, and not her own or another person's.

Looking back, Rita saw a Titan down on its knees, ankles cut down to the bone: the same Titan she'd went under. Despite its injuries, it was looking ahead, leering at them, and tried to stand, only to fall back down again with a crash. Chin in the dirt, but eyes still focused solely on them.

"Get the girl!" Amanda said, flying free of her horse and using her Vertical Maneuver Gear to position herself on its back, then ramming her sword into its nape. The blade shattered into pieces as blood sprayed forth and the Titan howled in its death throes and, thrown from its back, Amanda hit the ground tumbling hard, her horse fleeing in panic.

" Amanda! "

Rita leapt back on her horse and was about to race over to her friend, but, a high-pitched squeal of terror spun her sharply around. The girl...

The girl was gazing up at a Titan reaching down to take the man—her father?—lifting the horse with ease and, for a split-second, Rita hesitated.

Her friend, or the girl?

No, it wasn't even something to consider.

Eyeballing around the Titan's nape, she steadied her aim then fingered the trigger of her Gear and an anchor fired from the barrels slung around her waist. It oscillated violently, held fast by her belt, as its wire cut through the air and the anchor caught hold of the Titan's flesh, sinking deep. She reeled it in, an incredible pressure exerting itself on the belt as she was pulled abruptly forwards and gave into the momentum. She caught her breath as the world flickered around her, taken off her saddle and propelled rapidly at the Titan.

The Titan cocked its head and one of its hands reached for the anchor attached its neck.

Rita released the anchor before the Titan could grab at the wire, pirouetting like a dancer and simultaneously readying her blade to slash at its nape like she remembered in training, but, for whatever reason, the Titan stood up, and she crashed into its stomach instead.

The impact made her world to go dark for the briefest of moments, and she soon found herself sprawled out on the ground, spasming in pain and letting out a senseless wail. Yet, upon hearing the girl scream, she managed to sit up in a daze and lift her head just enough to see the Titan pulling out the man's insides while it looked down at the girl, her small eyes stretched wide, as if she were simply a toy it'd dropped while playing, before it bent forward, blocking the sun and reaching down with both hands toward her.

Thankfully still having a grip on her blade, Rita summoned all of her courage and swung at the Titan, slicing through its fingers that were each as thick and wide as her entire body before it could reach the girl.

Fingertips the size of clubs, all severed at the first knuckle, and enough blood to fill a bathing tub, rained down.

Plumes of steam immediately gushed from the stumps as the Titan reared back. It gazed at its fingers in child-like bewilderment and she could feel the heat from where she stood, its cut appendages already regenerating as it seemingly forgot the girl existed and, using the opportunity, Rita shouted for her to run.

But, the girl didn't move, her eyes focused on a single point beyond Rita and the Titan, as Amanda, alive, came flying through the air to deal the death-blow that Rita couldn't, cutting the Titan's nape and landing in an exhausted heap before them. She rolled over, breathing heavily.

"... The girl..." she wheezed.

Seeing the dire state her friend was in, Rita grit her teeth but turned her back and sprinted for the girl as she resheathed her blades, about to scoop the girl up and get her onto the horse and—she knew what she had to do, that she had to leave her friend behind so she and girl made it out alive—but, despite herself, she left the girl hugging the horse for dear life and put her arm underneath Amanda's shoulder. Helping her friend up, she tried to get her on the horse first but Amanda was too weak and she too light to lift her.

"Dammit!"

When she couldn't do it after another try Rita was almost forced to lay her back down again when a thud of urgent hooves approached. It was Wilco, a recruit from her year who'd been one of those to join the Garrison with her, coming toward them in haste. He slid to a halt beside them and got down from his horse, taking Amanda from her in the same motion.

"Wilco, you—!"

"You can thank me later!" he said in a rush. He helped Amanda onto his horse, made sure she was secure and then got back on. Her arms wrapped around his waist and tied to his belt so she didn't fall off and dash her head upon the ground as they rode, he pointed at Rita's horse and the girl. "Come on! Quick!"

She nodded. "Thanks!"

Running over to the girl, she cupped her hand for her to use as a step-ladder, keeping Wilco and Amanda in her peripheral vision as he kicked off toward a nearby Titan, flanking it and slicing it behind the ankle and severing the tendon. He disappeared into the steam erupting from the wound as she pulled herself up and got into the saddle, then followed after him, avoiding this latest Titan as the girl covered her eyes at the sight of it gawking at them unable to give chase.

"Damn! How can there be so—it's barely been a day..!" Wilco raved somewhere close up ahead. "Not even a day since they breached—!"

Squinting her eyes to see him through the steam, Rita held her breath within it, lest she burnt her lungs, as another volley of cannon fire rang out, overpowering his voice and the air around them shuddered. Before long, they were free of the steam and she checked on the girl. No reaction. Dead eyes. Lips shut tight.

"We messed up! Should've waited until nightfall! Not now, not in daylight!" Wilco went on. She could see him clearer now. Amanda was resting against his shoulder, unconscious. "Evacuate, how?!"

News of the fall of Shiganshina had just arrived the previous evening, resulting in an immediate decision of the government officials residing within Quinta to abandon the District, being little farther west along the Wall than Shiganshina, and they were supposed to have evacuated to Wall Rose, to Krolva District, only the Titans had reached Quinta faster than expected.

Shiganshina's inner gate had been breached in less than an hour of its outer gate.

The evacuation was planned around the notion that it'd take the Titans at least several hours to breach the second gate, if at all, but that plan had obviously fallen through, and it was in the midst of the new emergency evacuation that the Titans had fell upon them and everyone who hadn't been caught in the initial onslaught was now scrambling to get back into Quinta before its gates shut, though it wouldn't be long until—

"Rita! Down!"

She dropped instinctively, pushing the girl down with her, just as a massive hand swiped above them. She tugged on the reins, rearing her horse faster onward, feeling the girl stiffen against her abdomen, and stole a backwards glance.

A Titan on all fours with elongated limbs was racing toward them.

She urged her horse on even faster.

Soon, she and Wilco were beside one another, and they moved to rejoin the other rookies who were escorting the surviving wagons as they reached the outskirts of the town when a horrific, skin-peeling scream resounded through the ranks.

Ahead, the soldier who'd been leading the Titans away from before had been caught in front of their formation, the town overrun despite her commander's efforts, a Titan with both hands clamped around the man's shoulders. He was devoured headfirst, and there was a loud, sickening crunch as his skull splintered beneath the Titan's teeth. His headless body still in the Titan's clutches spasmed, then went limp, and that was when everyone scattered, a new horde of Titans barreling into them from the town. Some braved forward, bracing themselves amidst the Titans, but most backpedaled, making a mad dash for Wall Rose like the original plan, in vain though it was. For, much to their dismay, emerging from the open plains at the crest of an incline beyond the wagons, was an even greater mass of Titans. Several were three times the average recorded size, and fearing the worst, the inevitable, Rita looked down at the girl, then up to the town, outer gate, the symbol of Wall Maria above, and Quinta beyond.

If nothing else, she had to get this girl, the people within Quinta District, her home, to safety.

And, glaring at the approaching Titans in rage and disgust, pulling up in front of her, Wilco drew his blades in preparation. "Stay behind me!" he shouted. "We can get through this if we just—!"

Wilco's words were cut short by a volley which crashed into the houses in front of them, obliterating them and sending a massive wave of fire and dirt into the Titans about to bear down on them as, the blast staggering them and it was in the moment shortly after, before most of the Titans were able to find their footing again, that their commander came riding out from behind the horde with what few remained of Quinta's senior Garrison, bloodied and battered but still alive. He rode up to them, blood running down the side of his forehead and soot caking his face, waving his blade. It was steaming.

"You two!" he boomed. "Return to the wall! Ensure the gate is closed!"

Wilco shouted back. "But what about the—!"

"No time! Now go! "

Then he was gone.

Watching him kick off toward the Titans alongside those who'd came with him as the cannons continued to roar, though most volleys were now missing their targets, their operators' accuracy a far-cry from just before, Rita's eyes widened in disbelief when she realized what unthinkable thing the commander had done and heard Wilco curse as he came to that same conclusion: the commander had rallied those senior members of the Garrison manning the cannons in a suicide charge, leaving this year's Training Corps, the 103th Division—greener-nosed kids than themselves who had enlisted only a few weeks prior and even more in over their heads than she and the rest of her fellow rookies were—in charge of the cannons. Furthermore, the gate must've already begun to close, and instead of trying to save more lives, he was prioritizing those already secure inside Quinta.

… He wasn't just sacrificing himself and his men, but their fellow rookies' and the remaining wagons, too!

With the fire spreading rapidly around them as burning debris began to rain on top of them, carried by the cold winds, there was no time to debate—they had to follow his last orders. They had to keep going, even as their former classmates and juniors, her friends, fell in rapid succession as, soon, fierce battles in the gathering flames broke out all around them.

Left with no other choice, Rita covered the girl's eyes as they hunkered down, broke free of the carnage, and raced into the town, devoid of its people.

Its residents had left for Wall Rose the moment word of Wall Maria's fall arrived, making the journey on foot because they couldn't afford the transportation like those actually living within the District itself; the horses, wagons, and carriages of the mid-upper classes. Forced to cover as much ground as they possible could on foot, and, given the circumstances, Rita knew that none of them had probably made it to Wall Rose alive, and she teared up just thinking about it, knowing it to be true because if she dared look back, the Titans would be busy devouring everyone they'd left behind, and, it was only a matter of time before those monsters were after them as they hurried toward the gate.

If she to get the girl to safety, if she wanted to survive herself, then she had to look away.

"Shit!" Wilco, though, couldn't. "Shit! Shit Shit! "

They still had a chance.

"The commander is—!"

She had to look away..!

And it wasn't long before they reached it, just in time: a passageway with a barrel-vaulted ceiling leading inwards, five meters tall and three meters wide, suspended on an array of chains above it with iron plates, reinforced in multiple layers of the same width. Wagons and people being swallowed and spat out one after the other through it, while those who were still attempting to foolishly flee the District clashed with those clamoring to get back in—and it was closing fast.

There was a multitude of wounds, a large number of men, women, and, unfortunately, children, with bent noses, cuts to their eyes and mouths, bruised fists, and broken limbs, all without being attacked the Titans themselves, and the amount of shouting, crying, and screaming was enough to make Rita's ears bleed.

Overhead, the cannons were still firing.

Raising herself up in her saddle, she couldn't see how they could possibly get through when Wilco started strapping the still unconscious Amanda on his saddle, operating his Gear, telling her to get ready to push through the mob as he launched an anchor in their midst, slicing deadly close over their heads and parting them enough in the panic afterward to give them that much needed final stretch.

As it embedded itself into the ceiling of the passageway was going to force his way through, Rita bent forward and told the girl to hang on.

Just then, a nearby building burst apart, having been hit by shrapnel from one of the cannon shells. The explosion sent fragments of debris flying toward them, and a large splinter struck the side of Wilco's head with a wet, splitting thump. He was thrown from the horse, the wire reeling itself in and slamming his body hard against the ground as it dragged him forward, knocking into the mob as they scrambled further out of the way.

His lifeless body lifted higher and higher off the ground until it crucified itself where the anchor had dug in. There was a squelch, followed by a crunch, as his remaining bones shattered, some visibly poking and jutting from his body, as even more blood spilled onto the mob below.

This frenzied them further, and as the cannons again continued to pound into the approaching Titans, the panic grew cannibalistic as they all fought for one way or the other.

Having no time to spare, Rita took her chance and rode through them, holding onto the reins of Wilco's horse with Amanda and keeping the girl close, giving a farewell to Wilco's body when she passed under it and through to the other side, pulling them around to look at the gate as it finally closed shut, trapping them inside and leaving those unlucky hundreds outside to the eager mouths of the Titans.

She cupped the girl's ears until the screams stopped.

And, in the silence that followed except for the clawing of the Titans at the outer gate's iron plates, she and everyone else within Quinta immediately knew that the Walls they'd once built to keep them safe… had now become their cage.


	5. The Fall (2)

**Chapter 4: The Fall (2)**

The night before, Mathias had dreamt of the past. Scenes from his childhood fading in then out again, until one eventually stuck.

It was nothing, at first.

Just one of many a collection of bright specks on a blanket of black which seemed so far from his reach, until, it grew brighter and brighter still, coalescing into a single star, and shining within it was the girl he called childhood friend.

She stood there, smiling wide, gazing up at a statue in a corridor of his childhood home. Her features were lit underneath a thin column of light protruding from a gap within the corridor's ceiling, illuminating her soft, strawberry blonde hair in a halo of brilliant shimmering yellow; the shining angelic beauty of innocent youth.

The light waned until shadows deep and deeper filled its place and it fell down, her innocent youth cracking to reveal the cold, remorseless truth as the scene abruptly changed.

Saddled on horseback at the head of a detachment, face grim, gazing up at the inner gate of Wall Maria and the gleaming cannons atop its walls, she wore the colors of the Garrison upon her shoulder: red ruby roses with an entanglement of thorns. Freshly stitched above it was a single white stripe, and the distance separating them was now a chasm, and he hesitated to step forward to call out to her for fear he may fall in.

And, today, sitting upright in his bed in the guestroom of his father's second house in Fuerth after the fall of Shiganshina, Mathias regretfully wished he had. He'd stayed here many times before while accompanying his father on business and this time would've no different, if not for the fact that he no longer had a home to return to; the family mansion was in Quinta… and so was Rita, along with half of the District population.

His shoulders slumped.

Remembering the conversation between his father and his father's colleagues in the local Merchant Association along with a few he didn't recognize though could identify based upon their attire—mostly delegates from the surrounding Districts and leaders of the villages within the territory, but also at least one representative from the Royal Government itself, all of whom traveled day and night to reach Fuerth once word of Wall Maria's breach reached their ears—they'd gathered in the study around a large writing table packed shoulder to shoulder, discussing their most immediate courses of action when he'd simply barged in, demanding to know what they planned to about Quinta. About Rita.

The response? They were working on it.

A day later, and they were still working on it.

He sighed, but got down from his bed and slipped on his shoes. The air was cold, and he went over to the closet and put on a jacket. Heading for the door, the luggage he hadn't bothered to unpack yesterday upon hearing the news of Quinta's situation to unpack was now done and sorted, likely by one of the servants, and heard hushed voices on the other side, though when he opened it and stepped out into the hallway there was nobody in sight.

They must've come from downstairs, and, half-lumbering down the steps, found it to be Suzanne speaking quietly with a worker. Other than being one of their servants and his home tutor, she'd been in the employ of the Kramer family for as long as he could remember. Though she was well into her late-thirties, she looked ten years younger, and the two of them were more like friends instead of teacher and student and the only servant Rita was especially fond of, as she was of Rita in turn—almost like sisters, really.

Suzanne was the one who told him about Quinta's isolation and the likelihood of Rita's survival being more likely than not based on the fact of the refugees shacks right inside Fuerth's walls and eyewitness accounts of Quinta's Garrison retreating back into the District. Except, Rita herself being alive was mere speculation on her part, and one that he himself also wanted to believe.

When he approached when they were finished, asking if any progress was made regarding Quinta—if the decision to send support was finally in motion—he didn't miss the faint flicker of pain across her face.

"Oh… Mathias…"

He couldn't have missed it, even if he wanted to.

He took a step closer. "So did they?"

"Not yet." Suzanne's ambiguous answer told him all he needed to know, even as she hesitated and averted her eyes. "But your father is doing everything he can right now."

Which meant nothing at all.

"I see," Mathias replied. Head down, fists clenched, he understood his father's position, but, even so. "If you'll excuse me."

He shouldered past her and fled the house, fearing he might go mad if he stayed there a moment longer.

* * *

Mathias roamed the streets with no clear purpose in mind. The ground was grey, cobbled stone, with white stuccoed buildings raised on either side. Fuerth's appearance remained unchanged since his previous visit, though as he mixed in with its residents, the atmosphere was tense as everyone wore tight expressions and nobody smiled. Until now, the District had been located wholly in the Interior. Great walls and vast tracts of land had locked it away from the Titan's domain. But the status quo had undergone a dramatic shift. Those monsters were converging toward Fuerth's own outer gate. For the residents, the events in Shiganshina and Quinta were very much their business.

And, before he knew it, he arrived at it—on the side facing Wall Maria, newly labeled the Exterior.

The setting sun cast it in a dark shadow, where below as it met the ground were rows upon rows of basic shacks thrown up together by the refugees from within Wall Maria's territory. Though some of these shacks were noticeably sturdier than the rest, built from more substantial materials, the great majority of them were little more than cloth strung over wooden frames scavenged from disassembled wagons and crates and huddled between them were the refugees busy preparing evening meals, lighting stoves and setting pots and pans and clearing what limited space was available, shoulder to shoulder and back to back. The smell of cooking wafted over, carrying with it the stink of sweat and gag of human waste. Just a single day had passed since Shiganshina, and already there were so _many_. He felt something hot begin to swell deep down, like the coals in a furnace sparking to life within his chest, and grit his teeth as the heat spread to his limbs. His ears turned a delicate shade of pinkish-red and he fumed, jaw tight.

Citizens of the privileged classes were bound by duty to serve the masses; obligated, to help. And yet here he stood, unable to. Glancing back at his father's house, there they were, not lifting a finger. Concerned about the impact upon their shareholdings, their business-ventures and profit-margins and how the economy would handle the burden of mouths to feed, cozy and secure in the Interior, while these people were forced to live in discomfort and fear. And Rita… there was even the possibly she'd given her life in an attempt to protect everyone else. To see them safely to Quinta. But, no, he wanted to believe Suzanne was right. Rita was in Quinta and she _was_ alive. Waiting…

She _had_ to be.

His rising anger began to ebb, and gradually, he let it fade. The sparks flickered, then went out and he relaxed. His jaw loosened. He breathed deep, then sighed. Getting worked up over it wouldn't do him nor the refugees nor Rita any benefit, and that was when he noticed the line of people in the periphery of his vision. Most of them were young men. Following the line to where it led, the crest of the Garrison Regiment towered over all present, where outside the building and where the line ended was a desk. Two uniformed members of Fuerth's Garrison sat behind it interviewing those at the front of the line, scribbled notes, then handed out separate slips of paper to each before sending them on their way while what appeared to be a member of the Military Police stood beside them, shaking each one of their hands and offering a word or two of encouragement.

Upon a closer look, it was the barracks and he began to walk toward it, until he was sharply pulled back by a strong hand.

"Don't even think 'bout it."

Startled, Mathias spun with an accompanying bite of hostility, locking eyes with a barrel-chested young man around his age, maybe a little older, who crossed bulging arms denoting him as a laborer, or craftsman's apprentice. In either case, he was someone larger in size than Mathias would rather have to deal with if it came to blows, and cooled his temper and otherwise abrasive response in favor of one more polite, but firm though his body trembled.

"I'm not about to cut in line. And I won't." He couldn't tell if it was his previously built-up frustration leaking out, or fright at the sight of the young man's arms each twice the size of his own, or both—neither of which would stop him. "But, what're you all doing? Why are you all queued up here? Food provisions?"

The young man exchanged glances with the men lined up around him. "Yeah, right."

"They're recruitin' volunteers. Don't bother if you ain't got the backbone!" a squat, older man with broad shoulders and a slight lisp added from behind.

"Volunteers?"

"We're gonna take back Shiganshina," he explained. "If we jam that hole, that'll stop any more of them Titans gettin' in! After that we take down the ones between Rose and Maria, and all's well that ends well!"

"It's only just been announced," cut in a fat man.

Mathias mulled this over for a moment. True, better to deal with a limited number of Titans than a never-ending flow, but why Shiganshina and not Quinta, first? How could they be planning to leave Quinta alone when Rita and so many other people were trapped inside?

The fat man shrugged. "It's safe. Well, maybe not _safe_. But the Titans haven't gotten in, at least."

"I'm worried too. My wife and kids're back there," the older man said. "But they're tellin' us we gotta deal with the Titans first. Who're we to say otherwise?"

"I'm sure we'll check it out, at least," the fat man added. "Lots of villages between them and us, besides Quinta. Might be people who didn't make it all the way."

"Meaning, we do what we can, but the main thing is Shiganshina," the young man said back in, in conclusion. "But dressed like _that_ , I don't imagine you need it," he continued sneeringly.

"Need it?"

"The money."

Mathias glanced down at himself. He wasn't dressed in a particular way that made him stand out among the rest. Just a cotton shirt with woolen trousers and a jacket. A common, and unassuming outfit. But, it was the cleanliness of his skin and hair, the quality of the fabric, which gave him away. Eyes back up, nobody else was, and it was then he became acutely aware of the innumerable, suspicious looks being tossed his way. He cast a fresh look down the line, the back of which seemed to stretch even farther still.

"I see. And that's why you're all…" His voice trailed off as he went into thought.

Of course, he'd heard of the ill-nurtured dislike of the first and second classes by the third. That they held the privileged classes responsible for everything lacking in their own lives. Except, Mathias knew, that it were true. That all the talk of the privileges' able efforts of supporting the people, who would have no other choice but to forage like animals if not for the elites' intellect and knowledge, was a bunch of nonsense.

But, no, he wasn't like that…

He wasn't like his father. He wasn't Jörg Kramer.

But, he also couldn't openly speak out against such accusation. Condemn his father, a member of the wealthiest classes and tied directly with the Royal Government, in public. There were rumors of people disappearing, even members of the privileged classes, disappearing overnight for bad-mouthing men like his father. Whispers of men in dark clothing, and it was only because he was his father's son that he knew their name: the First Interior. Though, even being Jörg Kramer's son wouldn't save him, and so, he had to keep his mouth shut lest he find himself far from home—farther than he was already—in a dungeon deep and dark or yet worse.

Only… only inasmuch as this plan to retake Shiganshina placing Quinta on hold, the thinking matched his father's. Or, rather, it was probable that his father had played an important part in drafting the plan and seeing it in motion. It was very likely that whatever they'd _really_ been discussing in his study involved it. If nothing else, which supplies would be provided by which associations and to which theater. But, most of all, most in line with Jörg Kramer, head of the Kramer Merchant Association, was that he'd chosen to keep his son in the dark, already confining him to a dungeon of his own making.

And, thanking the three men for their time, drifting away from the line, he passed by the end of it, then abruptly stopped. He couldn't do anything to help the refugees, he couldn't publicly go against his father, but... he that didn't mean he couldn't still _try_.

* * *

The sun had set, and lights began to flicker through windows.

Mathias' fear was that they might announce they were done for the evening. This didn't happen—instead his turn came around faster than he'd anticipated, and the two Garrison soldiers, who weren't the same as he first saw, working in shifts, and the Military Police soldier, who continued to stand, told him and one other to come up. A bonfire crackled behind the three soldiers, casting harrowing shadows over their features and a vibrant, orange light over that of Mathias and his fellow volunteers.

The sullen-faced of the two with striking white hair—he couldn't have been much older than his own father, though in far better shape—dealt with the man beside him, while the younger, uninterested looking one dealt with Mathias himself. The slight redness of the younger soldier's nose was perhaps the result of regular drinking.

"Another refugee?"

"Yes."

"Name, age, previous employment, health issues." The younger soldier didn't look up from his papers.

"Kramer, Mathias. Nineteen. Previous employment…" Mathias stumbled to an unwitting halt. How could he…? "Uh… assistant… bakery… A bakery assistant!" he lied. "No health issues."

"Uh huh. Okay, I guess you can help with some of the kitchen dut—"

"Did you say Mathias Kramer?" the Military Police soldier interrupted.

"I did."

The Military Police soldier shared a side-glance with the older, white-haired Garrison one. The white-haired soldier then nodded, and his eyes went to Mathias; the younger Garrison soldier wasn't paying any attention.

"I'm sorry, but you'll need to go home."

Mathias' blood started to heat up. "Excuse me?"

"You're not qualified," the Military Police soldier added clearly.

"That… that doesn't make any sense!" Mathias shot back. "I'm obviously in better health than some of the other people who were just here! Even an old woman was before me, and you accepted her! So why won't—!"

"I'm afraid I can't say. You will need to leave the line."

It wasn't a suggestion.

His blood boiled and he opened his mouth to retort, then he froze. His veins turned to ice, and he felt the furnace in his chest grow cold as it dawned on him— _his father._

Reading his son's thoughts was nothing for the head of the Kramer Merchant Association. It wasn't a mystery, but a whisper in the dark. It was why this Military Police soldier was stationed here, both to help further sway the refugees signing up and also apprehend any notable persons attempting to blend in. Which meant that the instruction had been given to every recruitment post like this one: _turn down Mathias Kramer's application_. And with that, effectively ending his own plan of joining the campaign and traveling to Quinta, but also something else… something he dare not say aloud, as he nodded in begrudgement and took his leave.

… Something far more _sinister_.

And he dreaded what he believed it was and just how deeply embedded his father's role in it might be.


	6. Fake Smile

**Chapter 5: Fake Smile**

For the first time in a hundred years, Wall Maria, the outermost wall, the first line in humanity's defense against the monsters at their door, fell, a great many people died, and, today, four days after, the sole thought in Historia's mind was that nothing mattered. That nothing was the one, singular absolute in the world; the end, the book shut, curtains closed, and looking down at her feet dangling off the carriage, Historia watched the blood seeping between her toes on that night again, four days ago; the moment that she had meant nothing from the very beginning. Again, she looked up into the frightened eyes of her mother, watching her pathetic attempts at struggling against the knife drawn across her throat, slicing so deep it carved straight to bone. Again, she felt the warmth when in sprayed, violently striking a vital vein, as it rushed down her mother's neck, drenching her clothes and soaking the ground beneath in crimson regrets with her final words cut short by her killer's blade. Directed at her, their intent had been clear enough.

She was the bastard child who shouldn't have been born.

And, now, gazing out at the farmland stretched out before her in all directions, rows upon rows upon many stalks of wheat and barley and other grains swaying briskly in an evening breeze—territory within the confines of Wall Rose set aside for orphans in the unlikely event of Wall Maria's fall—it meant that her mother was little more than a whore. And, same as her mother's death was entombed in her thoughts forever, so too were the actions of her father, the impoverished noble with a weak heart and only one drop to spare. A heart that had finally run dry the day the Wall fell, his last act being to shield her from harm and send her away with a few parting words, lest his legacy die there.

"Goin' to sit there all day?" the man hired to move her from place to place that same night and at current—after one too many fights, after one too many bitten fingers and after one too many refusals to do what was what demanded, what was expected—had brought her to this place in the middle of nowhere, asked. Sweaty and reeking heavily of alcohol, he motioned her down. "This your stop. Come on, move it ."

She glared at him and didn't budge.

"I said move!" With a raised hand, he slapped her. Hard. Then, lifting her by a tuft of her blonde hair, he dragged her to the front of his carriage, behind the horses. "You'll learn one way or another." Taking a last swig of his bottle, he poured the few drops left down her throat and tossed it. "You'll learn!"

She spat it out. The man's rough hand caressed up her thigh, and she thought of her father's words as he clumsily tried unlacing her undergarments beneath her dress, punching her in the stomach out of frustration when he couldn't quite do it. Grunting, her eyes went to the bottle he'd tossed away as he licked her cheek, groping her chest, her hand closed around it and, grasping the bottle between small fingers, she knew what those words meant: that she was more than nothing .

Historia brought the bottle down as hard as she could on the side of his head. It shattered into a dozen dazzling shards and she picked up one of the larger ones and slashed his neck as he whimpered on the ground from the sudden blow. He made his last sighs in gurgles, grasping where she'd left the shard buried deep in his throat and staring at the body, she fastened her undergarments on again and looked at her hand.

Blood ran along the crevices of her palm.

She wiped her hand on her dress and turned to the horses, then to the farm.

She looked down at the man again, back to the farm, then to the horses, and, managing to climb her way up onto the end of the carriage, crawled to the front and took the reins of both horses between slippery fingers. Unhooking the harnesses that bound them, she let them go and watched them glance around in confusion, then awkwardly got onto the nearest one's back and leaned down. She wrapped her arms around its neck.

"Everything's going to be alright," she told it. "You're free now, so you can do whatever you want. You can go wherever you want." The other horse was already gone. "Your friend left you… you're all alone now…" Tears rolled down her cheeks. They tasted sweet. She tugged at its mane. "You're all alone with nowhere to go, but, you're free now so it doesn't matter. So go! Leave already!"

The horse just flung its head forward, then back, and threw her off—but, when she raised herself up, didn't attempt to run away. Instead, its tail swishing this way and that, the horse simply mosied over to the side of the dirt road and began chewing some wheat.

Historia laid her head back down, eyes on the drifting clouds above as she sobbed.

From here on, she had to forget herself. Who, and what, she was. Her father's first, last, and only words to her.

From here on, your name is Krista.

The tears wouldn't stop.

* * *

She named the horse Almond, after its color.

Since leaving the farm, she'd gone a far distance, retracing the trail the carriage took, reaching the edge of a small village by midday. She didn't recall them ever passing by it, but she hadn't exactly been paying attention to anything other than her own thoughts either and, drawing nearer, could hear the villagers up and about, working, toiling, slaving away. The thump and thud of hammers and nails on wood, the splashing of water and hoisting of buckets from wells, the flapping of clothes left out to dry; so unlike the stillness of the ranch she was raised on, brimming with the hard work of everyday folk that was lost on someone like her.

Sliding from Almond's back, she led him over to a tree in the shade nearby. He plopped down, exhausted.

She stroked his mane, now observing the villagers go about their daily tasks from afar. Something swelled in her chest that she'd only felt when her mother's blood splattered her cheek: warmth . So, letting Almond lay, curiosity getting the better of her, Historia set her sights on one of the houses closest to her, furthest away from any equally curious eyes.

She went underneath one of its back windows and peeked inside.

Seeing a table set for evening supper, her stomach rumbled.

She hadn't eaten in the past few days and could smell the freshly baked bread from where she was hiding. Gulping, she moved away from the window because, regardless of how hungry she was, lingering any longer was risky. She especially didn't want to be around in case that man's body had been found, as the only thing between here and there was the plain, everyday, unassuming countryside. Though, just as she was about to slip away, a slumping, groggy-eyed girl with long, red-brown hair came into view, and, keeping against the window, Historia held her breath as the girl opened it further, yawned, grumbled to herself, then left. She waited until her feet pattering across the floor were distant, and, slowly, started back before something else happened. That was when she saw the girl leave out a door from the house, carrying a bucket.

She gulped, again.

That's right, she hadn't drank anything in the past few days, either. Her mouth was dry as a bone. She looked after the girl as she disappeared around a bend. It lead into a forest, and though she thought of following her, there was already a well not far away with a bucket and rope already set up. Approaching it, she glanced around.

Nobody.

Quickly, quietly, she pulled on the lever. The bucket dropped with a hollow thud and dark crash, and she peered down at it in splinters at the well's bottom. The well was empty, and realizing the noise it must've made, one of the villagers—that other girl—probably heard it! She reared back. She had to get out of sight before someone ca—!

" Ouahf! "

Bumping into someone, they cleared their throat and Historia looked up into an old woman's wrinkled, sun-kissed face.

… Too late .

"That one's no good," she said with a slight hoarseness to her voice. "Better off comin' inside and takin' what I have stored there."

Watching her go, she noticed that the old woman was heading straight for the same house the other girl had come from, Historia panicked. She turned to run, but the old woman called out, reaching her before she could. With a grip strong as iron, the old woman took her by the wrist and dragged her to the house. As she stepped inside, Historia glanced back to where Almond was.

"Your horse is gonna be fine. I already gave him some water and an apple after you'd came sneaking over. Don't worry about him right now," the old woman said. She led her to that same table she'd been eyeing earlier and sat her down, then went to a counter, poured a cup of water, and offered it to her.

Taking the cup with her good hand, Historia hid the other underneath the table. She drank it with hesitation. The old woman didn't seem to have any intentions of hurting her, or worse, though she could never be too careful, and when she was finished, the old woman gave a tilt of her chin at the concealed hand.

"Let me see it."

Historia laid it on the table, palm side down. She realized that if the old woman did, it'd have already happened.

"Flip it over."

She did as told.

Grabbing a cloth and a bottle of what could only be a strong alcohol because of its smell—she knew it well—the old woman firmly held her hand down. For all her strength, her harshness, she went over the cuts and wiped away dirt and dried blood, rubbing it in with a gentleness that was surprising. Then, she sighed as she began wrapping the cloth around it. "Young girls shouldn't behave so recklessly. I'm still makin' today's bread, but I've some leftover from yesterday. It's still safe to eat. Otherwise, it'll be for the livestock."

Historia watched the old woman get up and go get some. "Why are you being so kind to me?" she immediately asked when the old woman brought it over and sat back down.

The old woman didn't hesitant and ruffled her hair gently. "My own selfishness. My daughter, you resemble her..."

"Your... daughter...?" Looking down at the table, she now noticed it was actually set for three and then over to the door.

"No, not who you're thinkin' of," the old woman said with a coarse, though sincere chuckle. After a moment, she continued. "My daughter is mucholder—joined the Scouts before Maria fell. Hasn't been home since, the ungrateful child..." She chuckled again. "No, that one's Achi. She's… been through a lot." Reaching over and ruffling her hair again, the old woman gave her a smile—"And I know that you have, too. I can see it in that face you're makin'. Saw you comin' down earlier, and figured ' ah, here comes another one… ' So… naturally, I... "

Eyes going to her hand still on the table, Historia had no words. She didn't have anything to say. She didn't know what to say, as the atmosphere between them began to part and the silence grew; she didn't know what it meant to feel that way for another person. Let alone, a stranger she just met. For someone as caring and kind as this old woman appeared to be, she herself was—She felt the old woman's hand on her head fall away, and looked back up.

"My daughter…" There were tears in the corners of the old woman's eyes. "... They burn the bodies, you know that? Could just be ash by now... and I wouldn't even know." But, through the tears, in those eyes, was nothing except pride. "She's alive," she continued saying, fiercely. "Otherwise, I'd know… ain't any Titans worse than me, after all."

Searching the old woman's face, Historia put her bandaged hand on her own. It was covered in calluses. "I believe she is... has to be…" She looked into her eyes; eyes so full of what she'd never received from her own mother. "Can I... stay here a bit longer, before I move on...?"

The old woman nodded. "Of course. I wouldn't have let you say no for an answer, anyway." She wiped her tears away, all hint of heartfelt emotion of the past buried down deep again. Locked in a cage only she could open. "My name is Isolde. Isolde Lenz."

Her father's words coming back to her, Historia nuzzled her head into the old woman's shoulder, squeezing her hand tighter, and returned her smile. "Krista."

"Welcome to your new home, Krista."

A smile that was all too fake for her own good.


	7. A Girl Had A Name

**Chapter 6: A Girl Had A Name**

The girl had no way of knowing how long she'd been here, in this place, but the sun had risen into the sky and sunk beneath the earth several times since, this shelter of light that she remembered now was something called a church. In that time, she'd gathered enough twigs, branches, and other materials to build a fire, intending to keep warm but instead leaving it unlit and spending it simply gazing up at the stars. Those twinkles of bright white fighting against the darkness in the night sky, through the hole in the ceiling.

She often found herself looking to the brightest, most brilliant one, reciting and repeating words learned so long ago, once forgotten and now returned. Words she couldn't yet place, from whom and from where—much like the rest of her past.

Who she was, where she was from.

Though, as with these letters, words, and phrases which slowly came back to her, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, so too would they. Her strength was also returning and, gradually, her battered body, her cold and beaten bones, would heal.

And, looking at her hand outstretched, soon she knew that she'd be well enough to leave this place and continue on. To keep moving still, as the voice inside her head kept telling her, a constant faint whisper in her ear.

The fire crackled. Wisps of light danced and disappeared into the night, and embers fell to the ground.

She stared into its heart, watching its flames lick the air and devour the wood, reciting again those words learned so long ago. That, while words held meaning, names—names held power. They were undying labels, etched on the actions of the past, present, and future. A representation of who you are and what you were; your identity to the rest of the world until the end of time.

So, then, what was hers?

The girl lumbered back inside the church, glancing up at a cloudy, grey sky before settling underneath the podium the same as she'd done her first night and every night since.

Closing her eyes, she thought of that voice in her head, the one which told her to keep moving, to get up and march. March until her feet were sore, eyes straight ahead, facing front. March until she couldn't march anymore. It wasn't gentle any longer, but, cruel and harsh and it shouted at them, at her, warning them that if they didn't advance, that their superiors would do worse things to them than their enemies ever could. No, on the contrary, to be killed by the enemy would be a blessing. She remembered it over the hum and drop of the shells, over the bullets whizzing past her head, the screams of dying children all around, and whistle blowing in her ear. And, with it, came the sight, smell, and feeling of the ground, muddy, blood-drowned, and ridden with holes; the sweat on her brow, rolling down her cheek; the stink of gunpowder, emptied bowels, and dead bodies; of her dirty uniform, the rifle in her small hands grasped tight with knuckles white.

She tried to put a face to the voice, but couldn't—her head still hurt something horrible when she attempted to forcibly remember her past—and got out from under the podium, abruptly deciding to take a walk away from the church and into the wilderness, thinking that by retracing her steps she might more easily make sense of the things which assaulted her mind—these scarlet flashes of pain, and her past which accompanied them.

* * *

Her journey of self-discovery led her to the entrance of a forest, its trees so enormous they seemed to touch the stars themselves. The trees appeared wicked. Looming, misshapen tawn tower-gates blocking passage to the secrets that lay inside. The girl looked beyond them into the forest's heart, seeing only blackness. She felt her chest tighten, a rumble in her heart in anticipation at what might be waiting. She dare not risk it, but, again, the voice told her otherwise, that her past would only come to light if she plunged into the dark and dragged it out herself. That she had to go forward, keep moving, ever onward, until the land disappeared beneath her feet and there was nowhere left to be.

Thus, she stepped in that dark, glancing up at the luminous twilight through the canopy of the trees, casting silver pools of light upon the ground she now trod, highlighting the many shadows surrounding her, and within a grove not far ahead, she saw them clearly—that which she never wanted to be again, their eyes shut and bodies unmoving. Sleeping. She approached one of them. The rumble in her heart became still, frozen cold thinking of her own ugliness and the voice in her head grew louder, telling her to put her hand upon it, but not why. Anything might happen, or nothing at all, the alternative being to stay her hand, leave this place, and perhaps never learn what she wanted most. She didn't have much of a choice.

Holding out her hand, she touched its skin, leathery and warm, and kept it there, waiting for something to happen. Anything, or nothing at all.

She waited.

And waited.

Until, she saw it: a light. A pale orange light outside her peripheral vision, and her head turned so her eyes could take in the full view. A line of wire at the edge of the grove, half-concealed in the forest's darkness and half-revealed in the moonlight. Twisted, haphazard, barbs of razor-sharp, skin-sticking steel wires, and peering closer, all of them were trampled, their frames flattened against the earth as faint flickering flames smoldered just beyond them and wisps of smoke rose to the sky. The took a hesitant step toward the wires, when there was a hum in the air, turning the frozen cold in her heart colder still, and she abruptly stopped. The sound had come from the flames, deeper in the forest. Deeper in the dark.

She waited. For anything, or nothing at all.

The hum became louder, and more intense, and with it, footsteps. Sloshing, heavy, beats upon the ground. Each footstep falling with a distinct purpose, a harrowing, impetus rhythm, toward her. Her frozen heart sunk down into the depths of her gut, her insides swimming around as she fought to keep it down. Her breath caught in her throat, and she suffocated in silence, the hum a roaring pain to her ears, the footsteps so close she could hear the jostle of bodies, side by side, and the rattle of weapons, rifles, pressed against their shoulders . Grim-faced, afraid, she took her hand from the monster but though the hum was still there. The footsteps were still there. Get closer, and closer, and she looked down at herself, to the rifle in her small, shaking hands, and her dirty, mud-covered, blood-smeared uniform, again. The bodies, ridden with red. Broken, bullet-eaten children festering with worms and maggots and all manner of telling signs of prolonged death and decay all around. Half-bodies, half-skeletons, limbs and torsos and heads sunk into the muddy, wet battlefield, sodden and soaking in scarlet. She looked back up.

The shadows beyond the wires became the lines of human shapes, and she raised the rifle, instinctively, expertly, and fired at them, and reloaded, and fired, and reloaded, and fired, until it clicked. Until her rounds were spent, and then the smoke cleared, and she saw even more bodies littering the ground. Approaching one, fresh with wounds, face down in the mud, she turned it over with the butt of her rifle, and her eyes widened. Her mouth opened, and she screamed.

And then the world, her world, became dark.

* * *

The girl woke up with a start, the harsh light of an early morning blinding her as she sat up, hands resting in her lap, head down. She coughed blood. Crimson spittle fell from her mouth. She wiped it away and looked around. The things, these monsters, no, these Titans , were still asleep. Standing up, she yawned, stretched, then made her way back to the ruined church and to the statues.

Angels. They were called angels.

And, spinning around to the rest of the place behind her, she let out a small laugh and didn't give a second thought as she walked outside into the dawn. Laughing even louder now, she knew what it was—what she had been waiting and searching for until now.

The girl mouthed it as warm, bittersweet tears streamed down her cheeks.

Words held meaning. Words have meaning, but names—names have power. There is power to be held in a name. They were undying labels, etched on the actions of us, the living and the dead and yet to be born, the sins of the past, present, and future; a representation of who you are and what you were; your identity to the rest of the world until the end of time.

Her name, was Ymir.

And it was time for her to keep moving.


	8. Mathias

**Chapter 7: Mathias**

Mathias was having trouble sleeping.

One week had gone by since Shiganshina's fall and Quinta's isolation and not for one minute had he stopped thinking about it until now, a seething anger encroaching upon his thoughts where Rita previously walked, keeping him awake and unable to shut his eyes for very long. Anger, at his father for having made a pre-emptive move, for having seen through him; at having allowed himself to be so simple to read.

Tonight no dream of any kind came to him and he looked up at the ceiling with furrowed brows deliberating how to proceed, before he eventually sat up. His patience was spent.

Fuerth was on higher ground than Quinta and those other Districts along Wall Maria, the Walls built upon slanted earth with the royal capital, Mitras, the seat of the Royal Government and home to King of the Walls himself, being the highest. This meant the air was cooler, and more-so the further into the Interior. On the opposite end of Wall Rose, for some reason, the air grew colder still, and was at its coldest in those Districts in the north—but even the cold night wasn't enough to quell his fiery heart, as he swung his feet to the floor and pushed his toes into frosty slippers. Lighting a candle, he left for some fresh air, hoping a quick walk might help settle him.

Coming down to the staircase, slivers of light trailed from the door to his father's chamber and he paused. He'd heard his name and, careful not to make a noise, got as close as he dared to the door. The voice on the other side, hoarse and disconcerting, almost sounding strangled because of the fat around their neck, was most definitely his father's. Like himself, his father hadn't visited Fuerth for a long time, so it was possible he'd forgotten that the walls of the house, while a bit thicker than the Districts to the south, Quinta and Shiganshina and the rest, weren't as thick as they were at their mansion. And, as though compelled by the sound of his name, Mathias stayed to listen.

"But why? Is there someone you care about?"

The voice that answered, he knew well. Lighter, a touch world-weary and saddened, it belonged to Suzanne and Mathias' breathing stilled.

Since the loss of his wife, his father often shared his bed with her, and when he first discovered this—unbeknownst to the two of them—Mathias had been incredibly uncomfortable. Not only was it was betrayal of his mother, but to think Suzanne would willingly degrade herself by being with his father, it was unfathomable. His father was a terrible person, and also on the heavier side. Suzanne, on the other hand, was thin. How they made that work was up to imagination because he really didn't want to find out. His stomach churned just thinking about it, and the only reason he hadn't confronted Suzanne about it in private was the very fact that she wouldn't lay with the kind of man his father was without having a reason of her own. She loathed him far more than even Mathias himself did. And so, he understood that there must be a reason, a purpose behind her decision that was a long time in the making, and as of this moment it finally appeared to be paying off...

"Not really. Well, there are some acquaintances, yes. And people are more important than anything else, that goes without saying—but I left certain items behind, too."

"Items?"

"I showed them to you before. The artworks. There was no time to haul them out, so I was forced to leave them behind."

"... Are they so valuable?"

"A significant fortune, but nothing compared to the whole. I brought everything in the way of tender. And I've always kept the majority of my assets here in the Interior."

"So this is a simple question of attachment?"

"Indeed."

Mathias broke into a sweat, his heart pounding hard and fast upon realizing what artwork his father referred to: numerous pieces of old, indistinguishable art, stored away in the underground room. To call them significant was an understatement for anyone besides Jörg Kramer. They were worth a fortune, and extremely valuable to the history of the Walls. He'd only known about them himself because of his countless explorations of the mansion with Rita. At the time he'd thought nothing of them, just a lot of dusty canvases like all the others adorning the walls throughout the mansion. Though it was only until much later when inkling of their true worth came to his attention, during a once-in-a-lifetime visit to the royal capital to meet with the King at his throne. He remembered seeing similar pieces behind him, hung upon the wall. He asked the King's advisor about them, and she said they were part of a larger mural, the missing paintings believed to have been lost long ago. Except, no, they were being hoarded by one of the wealthiest men within the Walls for years. And his father had left them back at the mansion in Quinta. And Suzanne… It must be what she was after.

But the question was why.

* * *

A bribe.

It took quite a lot for a man like his father to open up about himself, let alone anything having to do with his fortune. A lot of time, and patience. A lot of trust. And Suzanne accomplished exactly that. For years, she was softening his father's heart in order to slip into Quinta and take the artworks when the opportunity presented itself, then sell them to the highest bidder. What better way was there for artwork like those? It only mattered to whom they were offered, and what to ask for in return.

… At least that's all Mathias could think of as a reason.

But the question of why still remained, and he continued running plausible explanations through his head, wondering if there was anything he might've missed her doing. Any idea why she might be doing this in the first place, and that he wasn't just hoping it to be true because he desperately wanted to go back to Quinta himself to find Rita to, if possible, bring her back with him. And Henning and Doris—her adoptive parents—as well. After all, for that he'd need a horse. Otherwise he couldn't hope to outrun the Titans. Not on foot. Which was why he decided to join that line: to volunteer on the off-chance that he'd get access to one. Yet his father had made it certain he'd never be accepted. So, his only option was either to steal a horse with little chance of success, or, now, if Suzanne was truly not who she seemed, as ridiculous as that sounded after her being such a constant presence in his life from when he was a young boy without a hint of it—or just that she kept it so well hidden—that he might offer her a deal.

Or… no. Perhaps he was letting his own resentment of his father cloud his perceptions and Suzanne was innocent. That she really went willingly to her father's chamber to help him heal. He knew that Suzanne's life hadn't been a happy one. She was an orphan, like Rita, and, from what little she talked of her past, a lot of her youth was spent in Mitras, in the Underground. Rough, indeed. And, if that were the case, then he couldn't ask her to suffer more because of his own selfishness.

But, again, if he didn't try, then he would be stuck here, never knowing if Rita was safe.

And that was something he wasn't ready to let go of.

Thus, the next night, wearing the plainest clothes he could manage to find, here he was at the entrance to a tavern in a more inconspicuous part of the District, having followed Suzanne after she'd officially retired for the day. Tucked away deep within a spider's web of back alleys, many of which led to deadends, the tavern was far away from his father's house and the Garrison barracks. Far away from prying eyes, and only further proof that his suspicions about Suzanne were correctly placed.

He hesitated at the entrance, though this only lasted a few seconds because whatever awaited inside surely couldn't compare to the Titans; the din and heat seared out the moment he opened the door.

Abnormally hot inside with enough vapor and smoke to obscure the recesses from sight, the inside was larger than he'd expected. From what he could see, most of the seats were occupied by uniformed men. It was a hangout for soldiers, and, also, the kind of place that attracted less savory types. Somewhere where it was common to get drunk and make noise and not to enjoy quick-witted conversation or lengthy debate. Which made Suzanne and the shady individual in the corner of the room all the more conspicuous. It begged the question if they were actually attempting to be discreet or if it was intentional and they knew he'd follow her. Which meant he had a role to play in their plans than he hadn't anticipated. But, either way he wasn't about to back out now.

He looked around. "Hm…" He didn't know where to sit, even whether he was supposed to choose a seat of his own or one of the servers would see to that. None of them had spared him a glance.

So, Mathias decided to move farther in. If it was a trap, so be it; if it meant the chance to see Rita again, gladly.

He situated himself in the middle of the establishment. By putting himself right in the thick of it, he hoped that by blending in none would be the wiser. That Suzanne wouldn't recognize him, now seated in his perpetual vision. With his head turned slightly toward them, he saw that the man's back was pressed against the wall, the hat on his head tilted down, masking any distinguishable features, and while he couldn't hear what the two of them were discussing over the noise, Mathias assumed it was about the artworks.

He waved his hand at one of the servers. The server, skin-headed and muscular, nodded.

That would do, and, looking over at a table where some men were gambling, glaring at the cards in their hands, Mathias thought of joining in to blend in even further—only he hadn't the faintest idea how to play. Though much of his free time after Rita left was spent in establishments such as this, the majority had been a great deal more… sophisticated. Quieter. One of these men closest to him shared a look with him. The stink of booze wafted over. Then, the man clicked his tongue and went back down to his cards as if Mathias didn't exist.

He heard a whistle, and turned to the sound, spotting the server he'd flagged down from earlier sending him an expectant look from behind one of the tables.

"Ale!"

He thought he'd shouted it, but the surrounding racket drowned him out. The server raised a hand to his ear and Mathias pointed at the table of men playing cards and then back at himself. The server gave another nod and walked off, presumably to get his order.

Satisfied, Mathias surveyed the tables around him again, this time taking note of a man—a Garrison soldier with cropped hair, thick eyebrows, and thicker mustache—at a game of dice. Appearing to be out of luck, he was banging copper and silver coins on the table continuously. These coins were relentlessly scooped up by the other players, his fellow soldiers, and as he continued to guzzle drink after drink, firing off mumbled slurs at the servers, them, and anyone else who caught his attention, they grew more confident and more reckless. It was only until all of them put down large sums of money that the trap was set and truth revealed when his next turn came: he'd been his faking his bad luck the whole time. Sure enough, he rolled and got the highest, almost every single time until he controlled the game and the other players quit one by one. In the end, he sat there with the biggest pile of copper and silver coins and most empty cups of alcohol Mathias had ever seen excluding his father's expenses. Also, with the man's deception in mind, Mathias doubted he was ever really drunk, either. And so engrossed in the man's winnings was he when he happened to look back to where Suzanne and other man sat that both of them were gone.

The server came by with his order then, and as soon as he left, Mathias slumped forward in his seat, staring into his cup.

"... Shit."

* * *

Afterwards, Mathias still sat in the tavern, a bit tipsy from one too many ales. He couldn't go back just yet, not without coming up with a proper way to confront Suzanne about everything. Furthermore, given the time of night, she'd likely noticed his absence and informed his father, who probably hadn't even bashed an eyelash, and was currently staying up to wait for him. The longer he stuck around here, the higher chance he'd receive a scolding from her because of course his father hadn't the time nor any of the other servants would dare. Only Suzanne, and Rita, had ever gotten on him for his behavior outside of any business-related happenings, the sole times his father ever did it himself. Which, were few and far between.

He couldn't think of anything besides Rita again and put his head down on the table. Staring blankly at the wall, he needed to relieve himself. He pushed himself up from the table and started for the washroom, but his knees buckled underneath him and he dropped to the floor, retching. It wasn't until a dozen haggard, shallow breaths later that he realized it, and by that time he was on the dirty ground outside the tavern and not the wooden floor inside; they'd kicked him out for being too drunk.

Managing to prop himself upright, he slumped against a wall, tried to stand only to slide back down, and after two more of these attempts, strained his eyes against the morning sun through a cloudy sky to finally rest his chin on his chest with a sigh of defeat. His clothes were stained in vomit. He'd more to drink that originally thought, and after a short while his head felt something terrible. He cradled it in his hands. When his head cleared enough to wonder just how long he'd been out, he heard a voice above him.

"Good morning."

"... Ah?" Through teary eyes, Mathias peered up at a tall, older man in uniform. It took him a moment, but he recognized him as the same one who'd won that dice game earlier.

"Mathias Kramer, I presume?"

The old soldier proffered a hand.

Wondering if he was actually hallucinating because the longer he looked at the old soldier's face the more elderly he seemed, Mathias stared at it, unsure if he should take it. Partly out of mistrust. Partly out of being hungover. He appeared to be around fifty, but Mathias would've believed were in his thirties if someone told him even with his cropped hair being silver and streaked with white. The mustache made it hard to guess his age. Though, one thing was certain: he was the most powerfully build old man Mathias had ever seen. And more to the point…

… how did this old man know who he was?

Had his father asked the Garrison to search for him?

"Nice work, boss."

Another soldier appeared from behind. Middle-aged, and equally well built. He wore a big grin. Mathias was immediately under the impression he was always smiling.

Two more soldiers filed in behind him. They wore brand-new uniforms. One was a boy who looked around the same age as himself. The other was younger—no, a young woman.

He was beginning to feel confused and shook his head. He really did have too much to drink, hadn't he?

"Come on, lad! To your feet!" The old soldier extended his hand further.

With nothing else to do, Mathias clasped hold of it and let himself be pulled up. He was still a little dizzy and wobbled, putting his hand on the wall to steady himself.

"... How do you know who I am?" he said after he felt his feet beneath him again.

"How do I know?" The old soldier glanced back. The middle-aged soldier was still grinning, while the boy his age was coldly looking away and the young woman gave him a narrow eyed once-over. Perhaps they were part of a search party. Perhaps they'd seen his father's notice. Perhaps they'd been watching when he got rejected. Except, the old soldier's tone and expression suggested he'd known who Mathias was since a long time before—but Mathias didn't recognize him in the slightest. "How would I not know the scion of the renowned Kramer Merchant Association? It was clear the moment I saw you wander in!"

… Mathias backed up a half-step. This old soldier had not only been outsmarting those other players at dice, but kept his eye on him without drawing attention? Without him noticing it?

And if the old soldier noticed his growing suspicion now, it didn't show. "The abundant intellect! The oozing refinement! Ill-matched for a cesspool like this!" He indicated at the tavern's sign above its entrance. Then, suddenly, his head swung closer, and half-whispered into his ear. "Which brings me to my next question: you're in possession of some rather hefty information?"

This time Mathias backed up to the wall. If his suspicions had previously gone unnoticed—which he highly doubted—they were clear now. He couldn't make the same mistake twice. Surely this was his father's doing. He'd found out about him eavesdropping about the artworks, and send these soldiers to apprehend him. Unless…

Taking a closer inspection of their uniforms. They seemed awfully familiar with the way of the world, and, despite their air of having witnessed many battles, all four just had simple marks on their collars. The same as Rita, who, though on her shoulders was the white stripe, the rank of a team leader, had no actual combat experience. At least not when he'd last seen her. But, these four, they had it in abundance.

He swallowed. "Who are you, really?"

The old soldier spread his arms out. The middle-aged soldier continued to grin though it now appeared more like a smirk. The boy tutted. And the young woman scoffed.

"Oh, we're just a group of humble volunteers. Who have only just gotten their uniforms. Though, I can assure you, we're a fair amount more pliable than regular soldiers," the old soldier said, casting a look over his shoulder and exchanging a knowing smile with the middle-aged soldier. When he turned back, it was still there along with another hand, except this time he forced it into Mathias' own. "Call me Bernhardt. A good name, wouldn't you say? Nothing like yours, but it does have a certain… dignified charm to it."

Mathias was inclined to argue. Though, the only thing he could do was run. With his heart in his throat, he pushed the old soldier away and barreled through the other three, stumbling over before picking himself up again and making a mad dash out the alleyway, hearing the old soldier holler after him as he rounded a corner and into the web in his flight to make it back to the house.

"... We'll be waiting!"

And he didn't like the sound of it one bit.

* * *

When he made it back to the house, Suzanne was there waiting for him but not his father, as he'd expected. Though, instead of suffering through her flurry of questions or getting straight into the events of the previous night, who she might be, what she was doing, the artworks, he climbed the stairs and shut himself in the guestroom and locked the door.

Heaving against it, his heart fell back down into his chest and he took a deep breath. His hands were shaking. His body was burning up. He felt sick, and it wasn't because of the hangover anymore.

… Who were those people? The shady individual Suzanne had been talking to? Suzanne herself? His father's schemes behind the scene? Just what had he truly gotten himself involved in? Something was going on and he had a continuous, sinking, dark feeling that it was far bigger than the issue currently taking place in Quinta and maybe even the breach of Wall Maria and fall of Shiganshina themselves.


	9. Cattle

**Chapter 8: Cattle**

Rita thought of her childhood friend, Mathias.

A scene from their youth together, seven to eight, exploring his family's estate with one of his family's servants, Suzanne, accompanying them so they didn't break anything as their fathers were busy discussing matters in private. It was the first day they'd met, having quickly became attached not because they suited each other but because of circumstance, he an outgoing rich man's son and she the shy adopted daughter of his mother's physician. His mother was physically ill, getting worse by the day with not much longer left to live and hers already deceased beyond the Wall. They had almost nothing in common except loss, and through their loss they'd stuck together during those tough times and she touched the pendant he gifted her kept high around her neck. Part of a matching set, it was a soothing reminder that someone, somewhere, out there, would always be there for her. Would always share the same pain, the same comfort, and that together they'd be stronger for it.

It was her light in the dark, and, atop her position on one of the more intact buildings within the outlying town, she sorely hoped he was safely beyond this nightmare below, as the repulsive aroma of scorched wood and charred flesh wafted up from what remained, looking down at one soldier pulling what they believed to be a person from a ruined house closer to the gate, only to discover with dismay that it'd only been their lower half, the streets dotted with countless holes and craters from all the cannon-fire and her smile faded as her thoughts went back to the task at hand.

Titans still clawed at the gate, though there were fewer of them now, a great number of them having lost interest and wandered off to who-knows-where within the territory and, with the initial rioting within the city over, it being safer to begin a sweep for survivors, all able-bodied members of Quinta's Garrison and the 103th Trainee Corps unlucky enough to have been stationed in this District and not dealing with clean-up in the District itself were ordered to do their part.

They were currently on day five.

The number of survivors totaled zero.

A sigh escaped her sunken lips.

As for the task of clearing out the Titans still harassing them with the more experienced members of the Garrison—that is to say, all rookies able to stare up at a Titan and not soil their pants immediately, of which there weren't many, after that disaster of an evacuation plan—why, she could count them on her fingers, and glanced back at the gate, its iron plates covered in dark, dried blood.

They'd put her in command simply because she was officially the highest ranking member of the Garrison left alive in the entire District, but what did that matter if no one listened to her? In the first week after being trapped, she and the rest of the military was forced to stand by as the people looted and ransacked every abandoned shop in Quinta. Hence their current situation. And, now, the District was quickly dividing itself between the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd class citizens, each sectioning off and claiming specific portions as "theirs", forming their own vigilantes and policing them and almost entirely ignoring the military's presence that, in their minds, had failed to protect them, and were thus also incapable of maintaining any semblance of law and order in the isolated District.

She rubbed her pendant between her fingers, wondering just how long it'd take Amanda to recover. Two years ago, she'd been made a team leader with Amanda as her second, but everyone knew Amanda as the better choice, especially now, leadership needed the most with only her brash behavior when working with others having kept her from the promotion back then, and Rita's gut twisted as her grip tightened around her pendant, smothering it in her palm, its rounded edges pushed into her calloused skin. Her frown curled back into a snarl. Amanda had suffered a concussion and her father suggested she stay bedridden for some time more, and yet… she...

No. Amanda saved her life. She should be grateful, but it also felt like a punishment, being forced into the position of acting commander when she didn't have the same cadence in her step, no authority in her voice, stumbling over her words as she did her boots, standing shorter than most her age, with even more child-like features. Amanda was her opposite, her rival, the exemplar anyone in their right mind should follow, while Rita herself was the one always seen behind. Hiding, in their shadow. The quiet and meek little girl, tugging at her father's legs too afraid to show her face.

Her hand relaxed. Her expression softened. Her gut untwisted. Her heart sank.

Amanda. Amanda was her best friend, and if she wanted to take control of the situation, live up to her example, be the one others would follow, that would have to change; she would have to change. And without Mathias here to keep her warm nor Amanda to keep her safe, it meant in order to change she needed to start making the tough decisions, too—not just the easy ones. No more being ignored. No more letting things go. No more hiding. No more being afraid. No more searching for survivors they'd never find. Because, for Quinta's Garrison, the 103th Trainee Corps, the citizens within the District, loss was the one thing all of them had in common now, and it was time to grow up.

* * *

The District hall was completely deserted. As silent as a graveyard. Before the reality of their situation had completely sunken in, and in an attempt to quell the mounting unrest of those citizens now corralled like cattle in Quinta and scrambling into their own factions, Rita had come here in the hopes to find anything that might be useful, seeing that all the officials who would otherwise be navigating their current circumstances were gone—not a single one remained in the entirety of the District—and, so, it'd somehow fallen on her shoulders to be the person to do something about it. Looking up the marble stairs of the building, one of the trainees she'd brought with her remarked about the silence, how it was weird to see the once busy hall abandoned.

Ducio was his name. The trainee she'd put in charge of the others, and her temporary second-in-command. He was young, fifteen years old, but promising as a leader. More promising than her, anyway.

When she failed to appreciate the bigger picture after the first day because of Amanda, Ducio had been the one to rally the others in the commander's absence and convinced her to leave her best friend's side to lead them to take over what little authority they ended up having over Quinta's survivors. He believed in her ability even if she hadn't at the time, and this gave her all the greater reason to change. To be the example. It only added to the mounting pressure and, as they climbed the marble stairs to the top, each step she took was heavy. By the time they reached it, she was exhausted even though she shouldn't have been. Like she'd just climbed a hundred steps up a mountain path while hiking with stones in her pack back in the Trainee Corps and not just a few dozen with nothing on her shoulders. And even though they'd reached the top the steps continued on, the mountain path was hidden in mist and fog. The white wisps of things yet to come. Rita pulled on the collar of her uniform, almost as if she were choking due to the lack of air. Behind her, she could hear Ducio casually talking with the other two trainees in their group as she slowed her breathing and waited for her anxiety to subside, keeping her focus solely on her boots.

They had dry bloodstains.

Wilco's blood, whose unrecognizable, bloated body they'd pulled down and burned only two days prior. Two days. It should've been two weeks. She couldn't get the image of his corpse on the pyre, his belly bursting like an overlooked sausage and the stench of his ripened guts mixing in with the smell of his flesh peeling away as what was left of his bones became flakes of dust in the first of many funerals they'd set alight that day—at least for the bodies that were left whole—out of her mind. And for the many that weren't, regurgitated by the Titans in saliva-covered sacks of fused meat and bone, mass pyres were built and after it was all said and done the ground was permanently black. Anyone who went to the site of the pyres, either to sweep the splinters or pay respect, came back stinking of death, the smell of which never truly went away no matter how many times they bathed. It clung to the skin, soaked into the fabric of clothes, and, yes, stained the mind forever.

But that was the past. A grim reminder that they needed to come together if they wanted to survive, and that it was up to her to see that realized.

And, walking into the building after her first visit, up to its second floor and beyond to the tall-ceilinged hall which lead to the mayor's office, after the riots and the ransacking, it was still relatively untouched. Glancing back over the balcony from the hall where Ducio and two other trainees were waiting, the only thing on the first floor was the desk for general, day to day requests and inquiries of citizens. Nothing of value was behind it or in its drawers. As for the second floor she was currently on, it was reserved for the staff to go about their clerical duties and also, via the mayor's office through the set of doors in front of her, overlooked the plaza the District hall presided over. She knew if there was anything worth looking for here, it would be there. Though, again, per last time, there'd been nothing. Only that large desk and obnoxiously larger chair, the bookshelves lining either side, and the window behind. No, she wasn't here a second time for that. She was here to make this their new headquarters, and was thinking of how best to utilize the areas they had to work with within it.

Heading into the mayor's office, she went to the window and stared down at the empty plaza and other surroundings.

"Where should we start?" Ducio was at the set of doors, the other two trainees at each shoulder behind.

Rita half-turned, seeing their eyes so full of expectation. The prospect of someone close to them becoming highly-influential, it seemed, also an exciting one. Though all she wanted, meanwhile, was to be liberated from the role. But, until then, from here, she would unite everyone and protect them, as was her duty as a member of the Garrison Regiment. No matter her personal reservations on the matter. For Wilco, for Amanda, for the commander, for that little girl she saved, her parents, and all the rest of them. If nothing else, she would become the leader they needed in such turbulent times, even if that meant she had to change.

* * *

"You, the commander? Really? I can hardly believe it." Doris made a show of rolling her eyes.

"Acting commander."

That night, Rita sat with her parents at the dining table. Previously, her promotion to command had been unofficial, but once they cleared out the District hall and held a meeting, those who remained in the Garrison and 103rd Trainee Corps "officially" approved her capacity as their commander; their acting commander, as she kept having to point out to her mother, who was looking at her like she'd just banged her head on the table like when she was younger. Her parents, Doris, especially, hadn't been keen on the military keeping order before Wall Maria was breached, and certainly not after; main reason being their apothecary.

For whatever reason, the commander—the previous commander—was always at odds with them. Always coming by to check and see how their business was going. At the time, Rita figured it was out of concern, but with everything she'd seen the world was full of surprises that could turn what she thought she knew upside down. And her parents, the apothecary, weren't excluded.

"For all the officials to flee like that, I still can't believe it," Henning said, sipping some after-dinner tea.

"Absolutely. And to think how they always acted so important." Doris sipped her tea too and peered at Rita over the rim. "And now you're doing their work? Well, what about the stockpiles—money, supplies? Do you know how much we have left?"

Rita shook her head.

"Bastards."

"What about horses?" Henning asked.

"Less than twenty."

The idea had floated around to send small groups out, earlier, before things got as bad as they were, but they'd decided against it in the hope that reinforcements from Fuerth would arrive. Days have passed since then. And even if they managed to clear the surrounding territories now, if they ran into the ones that were fast on their feet—those "aberrant" Titans—it was suicide. They'd be wiped out. Then there would be fewer horses, fewer soldiers, and fewer manpower within the District. Not to mention the citizens' lives. No, Rita knew what her father was thinking, but it wouldn't work.

As for supplies, with them running the apothecary unbeholden to any of the three sides, not only were their hands full tending to anyone who walked through their door, but their stock of bandages, medicine, herbs, and other ailments were dwindling rapidly day by day. It was a miracle that nobody thought to loot it overnight, but it was only a matter of time.

Glancing out the window, the world outside was shrouded in dark. Rita's mind traveled back to the evacuation, and that was when her mother muttered to herself about the Kramers. Their thoughts seemed to be moving in the same direction. And, hearing Doris' footsteps as she slipped into the kitchen, Rita would do everything within her power to keep Quinta safe—so that she could hold her head high when she saw Mathias again, before she got up from the dinner table herself and wished her parents goodnight as she went to bed.

* * *

Rita dreamed. It was a dream she used to have regularly, but with everything that's happened, this was the first time in a while.

In it, she stood motionless in the doorway to a room she didn't recognize. Sunlight streamed through the windows, but the room was eerily black. There was a table. Some chairs. Against the wall, the shadow of a person. A grown man. He was crouched down, huddled into a ball. Her vantage point was low, still a child, younger yet than when she and Mathias had first met.

Gently, she placed a hand on the man's back. It lacked any warmth. His face, she knew well. That she'd definitely seen somewhere before. One that she couldn't bring to mind, the person it belonged to. This man. As if the memory of him had simply chosen to abandon her.

The man cradled a wooden box in his arms. Leaning on it. Limp, perhaps even asleep.

On the floor next to the man's feet as a small vial about the size of her thumb. A few drops remained inside. A transparent liquid.

She shook him, but he didn't wake.

Deep was his love for the wooden box.

And standing there, staring at the man against the floor in the dark, Rita could smell the faint stench of decay...


	10. Toll

**Chapter 9: Toll**

Thorpe sat near the edge of Wall Sheena, close to the outlying District of Yarckel. Other than having to acquire fresh water from other sources during seasons of dry spell, usually from the forest not far away, it was self-sufficient. Almost everybody lived in self-build homes, with everything else in separate longhouses made primarily of wood, their floors lightly covered in hay or grass. The livestock and food were all located inside these longhouses, sectioned off from one another, each one maintained in rotating shifts by everyone in the village, young and old, and as a result the community was tight-knit. It kept stress down, work steady, and brought them closer day-by-day.

Its main purpose was the raising of pigs, chickens, cows, and goats and the production of grains, stalks of wheat, barley, and others, with only the fattest and well harvested hauled off to the Interior, where the product was further processed foremost for those citizens within Mitras, the Royal Capital, then the leftovers distributed to everyone else in Wall Sheena next, and last and certainly the least of the Royal Government's concern, whatever remained given to the residents in the Underground, all but forgotten by those living on the surface.

Before the fall of Wall Maria, it was one of several villages that provided primarily for Wall Sheena, but since its fall, resources—which were already scarce enough with the overcrowded population—were being stretched so thin now because two Walls were forced to provide for three, what survived, and had been somewhat before, and thus with so many "extra" mouths to feed, that Isolde said it the Royal Government would take drastic measures; that they would probably send a number of the refugees from Maria's fall away. Exile them, she'd said. Throw them to the wolves so they wouldn't have to worry about their already limited resources dwindling down to nothing in less than a year forward. In other words, the government plot that'd been on the tip of everyone's tongue since Shiganshina.

This also meant that Thorpe and these other villages were working twice as fast, and producing twice as fast, to meet the needs of the people.

And, currently, Historia was getting her bandage replaced after the day's regular events.

"It's healin' well," Isolde said, peeking underneath the grimey bandage on her hand before gently unwrapping completely and tossing it aside. There was a visible pink gash in the center of her palm, and Historia winced when Isolde wet it in alcohol."But'll leave a scar alright."

Her mind flashed back to the drunken carriage driver, each sting of pain she felt like another slash at his throat until the new bandage was on. And as the pain subsided, the memory of his death faded, too. Soon enough, she was staring at his lifeless body on the dirt road, eyes wide and mouth agape, gazing back up in shock and surprise.

No word had yet reached her ears of a body nor the carriage being found, but, rubbing her wrist as she brought her scarred hand closer toward her chest, she wondered how long she should continue to stay here. It wasn't safe for either her or the people living here. Eventually, perhaps even already, they would find her. They would silence her. Then she wouldn't be able to learn the truth about her family, about her father, whether the stories he'd raved and ranted of weren't just that: stories.

And, about stories, the Fall of Maria was still fresh in many peoples' minds.

About that day, the red, skinless Titan which peered over the Wall, staring down at the citizens of Shiganshina, right before the outer gate exploded inward, and then disappeared almost as if it'd never really been there to begin with, though there were those who swore otherwise. Of the one that broke through the second gate, the inner gate, into the territory of Wall Maria itself. Which cannons had no effect on, and spewed fire from its mouth, its body armored head to toe. The news of Quinta District, a District not far from Shiganshina that was surrounded during their evacuation, those within its gates barely managing to shut them in time, before a similar fate befell them, as well. And the whispers of a government plot, a last resort, that villages such as Isolde's were being pushed to prevent.

Historia looked up from her hand, watching Isolde prepare their late evening meal. She was a tough old woman, not as old as she looked, years' worth of hardship having taken its toll, and since becoming a part of her world three weeks ago to the day after Historia first snuck her way in, had immediately put her to work around her farm.

Actually an extension of the house farther out in the territory, this farm was one of the few larger properties connected to the village and was responsible for herding sheep that weren't kept in the village like the rest of the livestock for fear of wolves, setting down different crops like corn and potatoes, and producing bales and stacks from vast abundance of wheat, barley, and rye in the fields.

The work seemed far too large for one person alone.

But, according to those in the village, Isolde managed just fine by herself until she or Achi came along, excluding the help she occasionally got from the village children whose families were indebted to her for some reason or another, and those individuals who simply wanted to help—which was so rare a thing around these parts.

Already it was a common daily task for her now.

Bruises and sores regularly covered her body, dirt and sweat her clothing, and tiredness her eyes with dark circles beneath.

Nothing she wasn't used to be before.

Except, unlike before, when other people would look at her, they saw a delicate creature taken in by a lonely mother. Their stares, their whispering, their accusations and assumptions—they wouldn't go away. Things had changed, but not for the better, exchanging one for the other, and at times it honestly felt like nothing ever truly would.

Historia hated that word: nothing.

She could never escape it no matter which way she turned. Left, right, up, down, north, east, south, west—it didn't matter, and, catching a glimpse of a mouse as it scurried back into its hole in the wall, whether she was one of these mice that scurried along the floor, or one of the hawks that circled outside in the skies above, waiting for them out in the open to snatch them up, she didn't know.

Was she the mouse, or the hawk? Was she the sheep, or the wolf?

Was she something to be used, like her mother and father before her? Or something to be cherished, like Isolde always reminded her?

And, while she was learning a great deal in her time here—most notably the importance of herbs and medicine—from Isolde, a relatively peaceful existence mending the locals' various cuts and scrapes wasn't enough.

Her hand closed into a fist. It hurt.

It just wasn't enough.

She was still nothing.

She was still worthless.

* * *

Later on, night approached swiftly, and Historia was finishing up in Isolde's study when she chanced upon a book tucked away in a corner, well-hidden and well-worn.

Isolde's study was one of the first things Historia had been introduced to on the farm. Given free reign of it so long as she kept it well-maintained, it was well worth the extra work. Through the books in the study, she knew better all the things Isolde taught her about medicine, herbs, ointments, and ailments and the mending of those cuts and scrapes. The truth behind them. That there was one she overlooked was a delight, because she previously thought she'd read every single one of them twice over already and was hungering for something new.

It'd been sitting there for some time. She blew on the front and wiped the dust off and opened to its first page, seeing it blank, then began to leaf through the next several pages expecting it to be full of diagrams and instructions related to medicine and bodily functions like the rest; for an old woman who spent most of her time instructing others in how to properly rack a field, Isolde having a serious study that smelled of moldy paper and dry ink was a welcome, if not entirely unexpected surprise. Certainly whatever was contained in this book would offer no different, and upon a first look it seemed exactly that: just another in-depth examination of the body, inside and out, detailing everything from skin to muscle to bone but with one distinct difference—it was in a text she couldn't read.

… While she could decipher that names were given to each part examined, what appeared to be with a brief description or two of their make-up, functions, and about the specimen itself, there were also strange measurements and weights, unorthodox comparisons and differences, a plethora of information about something that looked like an intricate, connected root with its stem at the head. It was a size and body of work much more advanced than anyone within the Wall excluding what physicians in Mitras might be capable of and only until she attempted to sound out some of what was written on the pages that the realization dawned on her: these were just like her father's ramblings only in written form.

She was sure of it. These words, these symbols, this… language… Historia had heard it before.

Lost in his stories about the King, the King's advisor, the whole lot of nobility that did their family wrong, she'd heard her father often mumble to himself using words and phrases that nobody understood. To most, the whines of a washed-up alcoholic, once noble and now a pauper, but, to a few, to her he'd been trying to say something. Something unspoken, which couldn't be uttered openly. Something damning, and horrible. Something that sent those men to murder him, her mother, and have her taken away, the men in black who carried out the deed.

And if she wanted to know whether his stories were real or ramblings, she'd have to seek them out. Learn more than just the words on a page and uncover the truth behind her father's—her family's—descent in obscurity under the watchful eyes of the Royal Government and nearly severed forever in the immediate aftermath of Wall Maria's fall.

Historia closed the book and put it back where it lay. She wouldn't ask about it even though the old woman didn't seem like the kind of person to hold many secrets. The fact that her father wasn't completely delusional was enough. The fact that she still lived, was enough.

Thus, her next course of action would be to find a way to Mitras. Records, reports, registries, documents, notes—anything that might help her discover more about her family's history. About the Reiss noble bloodline. Only, they knew her face. Showing it in the Royal Capital would be foolish and her father hadn't died to see the last of his legacy willingly throw herself to the wolves. No, she would have to become that wolf, and claw her enemies to shreds. Cut out their throats like they did her mother's. Sink her teeth into the truth, and not let go. She already had blood on her hands, after all.

But she couldn't do it as she was. She couldn't do it alone.

And it was then she remembered: Isolde's daughter.

Her only daughter.

Her real daughter.

The old woman spoke a lot about her; about her being a soldier in the military and one of the protectors of humanity. A member of the Scouting Legion, the only branch of the military to extend their arms outside the Walls and face humanity's greatest threat head-on. Said that, in the end, Riecka and the others were the only thing between them and those things. Their saviors, putting their lives on the line for a cause greater than themselves, and their martyrs, dying for that very same cause in humanity's struggle to survive against the Titans. Those things, those monsters which breached Wall Maria and its lands within. Two of them, the Colossus and Armored—as they'd been officially named by the Royal Government—being the ones personally to blame. That, these two, specifically, needed to be dealt with before they breached Wall Rose, too, and Sheena after, and that the military's soldiers would stop them. That the Scouts would stop them. That they would eventually take back Wall Maria and drive the Titans out.

The soldiers in the Scouting Legion. They were people to be proud of. People worth value—fighting for what they believed and sacrificing themselves for what humanity might accomplish in beating the Titans once and for all.

Historia stared at her feet, the book back in the corner, and whispered her father's words beneath her breath, adding to it.

From here on, your name is Krista Lenz, a soldier of humanity.

A savior.

A martyr.

A wolf.

A person worth value.

And she knew where she needed to go next.


	11. Mathias (2)

**Chapter 10: Mathias (2)**

"To our first official meeting!"

Bernhardt raised his mug of ale aloft.

The room was cramped, stuffy and closed off from the rest of the bar with a round table and six chairs around and although the two were only separated by a flimsy wall, the clamor dropped away the moment the door shut behind Mathias, who stared across the limited space at the mustached old soldier as his muscled arm cast long shadows over everyone else. He'd just been shoved a mug of his own and had one of the empty chairs already pulled out for him before even fully stepping inside. It was next to Klaus and Nikki, the former giving him a brief, moody glance while the latter snuck a wink in between guzzling down drink after drink.

Nobody followed his cue. Bernhardt shrugged, finished the gesture alone, then took a deep gulp and continued talking. "Charming bunch! Wouldn't you say, Mathias?"

Squished awkwardly between Klaus and Nikki, Mathias kept his head down, but managed to give a sheepish smile. Bernhardt smiled back and knocked mugs with Jarratt, who chuckled heartily.

These people were outlaws. The kind whom saw fit to steal others' possessions and sell them for profit. They couldn't be trusted, yet here he was amongst them having previously resigned himself to join their merry band of thieves after several long days and sleepless nights contemplating whether he should or shouldn't, if Suzanne was or wasn't, while the campaign to send the first volunteers outside the Walls reared its head and would be underway tomorrow, which left him with only one option in the end—like it or not.

Their leader, Bernhardt, who'd accepted him into the fold almost instantly, was truly an ex-soldier unlike the others. A former member of the Military Police Brigade. Only the highest achievers from the Training Corps were able to join them.

Mathias had seen first hand the corruption in their ranks, and knew his being here meant he'd been caught. Rerouting supplies to the black market, the Underground, turning a blind eye to smuggling, giving questionable parties the times and locations of shipments—instead of a cell he was given a slap on the wrist the first time around. The second time, a fine. Third time, an honorable discharge so as not to tarnish the Brigade's reputation. Over fifty years of service, nearly five decades worth of cheating the Royal Government and the people within the Walls of their money, and the only difference between then and now was he couldn't move through official sources anymore. He was a thief, a fugitive, an outlaw, but the law would never catch him because he was once one of them. He was the Royal Government, he was the people within the Walls, and he sure as damn well knew it.

As for the others, Klaus, Nikki, Jarratt, they were three of his former business partners. They were his friends, his family. His children. And just yesterday Mathias had learned their names.

Tonight he would learn their plans. Tomorrow their lives.

* * *

A few hundred soldiers were already gathered before the gate. A handful were regulars, and the rest volunteers. The former were on horseback, while the latter were pressed together in so many wagons.

Mathias and the others were with the wagons. He shared one with Bernhardt and Nikki. Klaus and Jarratt rode in another.

In charge of Mathias' wagon was a sloppily dressed soldier who'd been yawning for a while and seemed half-asleep. Despite appearances, he was outfitted with a set of Vertical Maneuvering Gear. Its launchers and sheaths for his blades were slung over either side of his waste and Mathias was convinced someone else forced him to don it because it looked like he should still be in bed.

The departure for Quinta had come early in the morning, before sunrise, and Mathias had yet to see any morning light from behind the wagon's canopy.

Nikki, who sat facing him, answered his unasked question. "Titans have a bed-time, too."

She grinned, then punched him in the chest.

"You were lucky!" she said immediately after, likely talking about the random volunteer they'd bribed to get him inside.

Hard, and precise—right where it hurt the most—on the badge pinned to his shirt. The pin poked his skin and he winced. For all the drinks she'd had the previous night, she showed no telltale signs of hangover, and might've been a compliment to her fortitude any other day but Mathias sorely wished she were a little tipsy. At least then she wouldn't be so coordinated in her punches, and pain.

"... Yeah."

His response ended up sounding half-hearted because in the end they hadn't needed to bribe any of the soldiers in charge of signing up volunteers like he'd suspected.

For the volunteers, there had been minimal risk of being turned down since they were mostly in it for the money. During the evacuation from Quinta, many of them had seen the Titans. A number had developed second thoughts and dropped out of the campaign even before passing through the gates.

"If I'd known it would be this easy, I'd have managed it by myself," he then blurted out.

"Such folly…" Bernhardt said, shaking his head at the back of the wagon, turned away from them. "How would you have reached Quinta, if you'd been on your own? You've no horse, and lack the guile to rob one from the soldiers. Even supposing you did break away, you'd be a meal. That is if you even know how to ride—what about a gun, lad?" He motioned at the allocated weapon against the canopy next to Mathias.

"You can use a gun, right?" Nikki asked.

Mathias glanced at it. The gun had two barrels, side-by-side; a shotgun for close encounters. "A bit. My tu…"

He paused.

He couldn't reveal that Suzanne was the one to teach him the basics on how to shoot, not these people—not to this old man. While he wasn't certain if Bernhardt knew her, it wouldn't help matters to bring such information to light. There was still a lot about Suzanne that Mathias didn't truly know and if anything he'd want to hear it straight from her mouth when they saw each other again. After he'd rescued Rita and her parents.

"M-My father . He showed me how."

Bernhardt looked back with one bushy, raised eyebrow. The skepticism on his face was telling. He brought his head in uncomfortably close and looked into Mathias' eyes for what seemed like a lifetime, then drew back and smiled. "Well, that's a very good decision!" His voice became a whisper. "Wouldn't have guessed…"

Mathias stiffened.

The old man was suddenly a lot more frightening than usual.

"The rich often find themselves gaining the antipathy of the poor," he said, his voice no longer hushed as he sat back. The smile was gone. "And you have a good chance of being robbed. A gun is necessary for your own protection, as your father was aware."

"But surely these aren't good against the Titans," Mathias countered.

"Your folly knows no bounds," Bernhardt lamented with another extravagant shake of his head.

"It fires buckshot," Nikki said, holding it with ease and familiarity, having slipped it from under him when he wasn't looking. She opened the chamber and showed him the cartridges.

"Against a ten-meter class, it wouldn't help. But for a five-meter class? Perfectly serviceable. Guns are far more than simply killing the enemy."

"Really?"

"Use your imagination, lad!"

Mathias had only ever seen a Titan in person once.

Many years ago, a connection of his father's had enabled him to visit the top of Wall Maria. From there, he'd gazed down at the world beyond, spotting a lone Titan barely visible in the distance. But even then it'd been a substantial shock and, for a while afterwards, recalling the image of it at night, he'd been unable to sleep soundly.

If Bernhardt or Nikki showed any sign of shock or dread about venturing beyond the wall, neither were. The same seemed to be true for Jarratt and Klaus. Their nonchalant attitude stood out among the volunteers, the majority of whom Mathias had seen wore tense or apprehensive expressions. It came as no great surprise that many were withdrawing from the campaign. The ones who didn't were either stupid or, like their wagon driver, too tired to care at the moment. Unlike Bernhardt and the rest, who were unfazed.

Bernhardt in particular was in high spirits. "Our goal is to help people nearby. We wouldn't be able to find anyone at night, even if there were people out there. Isn't that so," he said in a singsong manner. "But, Titans? We might find a few, or they us ."

"We're not going today, then. To Quinta."

"The District has the wall," Bernhardt answered. "They've judged that Quinta can fend for itself for the time being. Our first duty is to reconnoiter the land between Wall Rose and Wall Maria and to save anyone still living there. The judgment itself is sound."

It was as Mathias heard days prior and suspected as much the entire time. There were no allusions as to his father's hand in it if he still held any beforehand. The Royal Government betrayed no concern for the people stuck in Quinta. Their main priority was to reclaim Shiganshina. It was suicide. Government-funded mass suicide, under the guise of liberation and fueled by the volunteers' revenge against the Titan threat and longing to see their families again.

"And that is where we enter the picture."

"Hey, it's opening," Nikki spoke up, a bounce in her voice. The shotgun rested on her lap, cradling it with one hand as she pointed ahead with the other.

All eyes turned to the gate. Its mighty chains began to roll, hauling the iron-reinforced barriers up. Dawn's light filtered through the inside portion of the cave-like passageway. A commotion stirred among the volunteers, and lots of them were holding their hands over their mouths, as though to stifle an urge to throw up. Some were pale-faced and shaking, while others were pleading with the regular soldiers to close the gate again. No doubt, memories of the Titans were beginning to resurface and spread like wildfire amidst the crowd. Burnt deep into their heart, wrenching their insides free as a few did to spill their guts; the combined smell of fear and regret.

At the front of the crowd, the commanding officer appeared to be giving a speech. A short while later, a rally cry rang into the air and throughout everyone present. There was no backing out now.

Not anymore.

Their wagon lurched forward without warning.

"Here's to getting rich!" Nikki exclaimed, slapping him across the back right as they went over a large bump.

Thrown with the momentum, Mathias came dangerously close to toppling off. He grit his teeth and hung on desperately to the lip of the wagon. The up-down motion was worse than he'd expected, and he had to be careful lest he bit off his own tongue.

When he finally managed to haul himself back up to safety Nikki was fiddling with her rifle and he gave her a begrudged look as he took his shotgun and sat down. The campaign had only just begun and here he'd almost died.

"And… We're off!" Berhardt cheerfully announced.

… It was going to be a long journey, indeed.


	12. A Purpose

**Chapter 11: A Purpose**

Since leaving the church, Ymir could still hear the boy's screams echoing in her head when she slept, but, gradually, bit by bit, they were being drowned out by the faint whispers from her life before as they grew in number amidst the cadence of marching boots and war-drums. The memories of a battle fought long ago, brought upon by blinding flashes of red that came as piercing pains against her frontal lobe, bombarding her with frequent fragments, each night, every night, to the point where she got little sleep for fear that simply shutting her eyes would induce another skull-splitting headache. Though, the longer she resisted the worse it became. Last night was her longest time awake thus far. She'd somehow managed to stay awake for several days, before the pain felt as if someone was taking a mallet to her skull, chiseling away piece by piece, by the end of it.

And today she suffered for it.

With still no clearer idea where she was going, or where she was from, the church a long ways behind, having stumbled from place to place since, hallucinations ran rampant in her mind. Right now, she was following after the trail of guts and blood left by the boy bearing the scars of his death; everything below his waist was absent, his intestines dangling and dragging across the ground. He walked with his hands, holding himself up and wading along. The back of his shirt was torn, skin shredded and spine exposed. He leaned further left than right, his right arm not much but loose sinew and bone. His black hair in patches atop his peeled head, his crimson skull beneath the flaps was partially eroded. His neck was partially ripped open, what remained of his jaw hung low, mouth snapped open with a drooping tongue. The only thing wholly intact was his upper half, barring the bottom of his nose.

She knew he wasn't real. Knew that he was guilt personified, molded from memory and nothing else, and when she'd at last caught up to his unexpectedly lithe form, knew that the only way to learn more about him was the same as her past, to keep moving forward. Though, no matter how far she went, the land seemed endlessly empty. Every place she stumbled upon was deserted.

There were signs that people once lived in these places, these villages, but if not for the fact her scavenging them for leftover food and clean clothing, Ymir might've thought herself to be truly be alone. Herself, and her hallucinations. She had to find people, civilization, but the farther she traveled the riskier it became, as well.

Dotting the land also were these forests of giant trees in abundance, not unlike the one where she saw the barbed wire, the bodies of children all around, that rifle in her hands, and discovered her name. She didn't linger any near them than she had to, avoiding them entirely whenever she could because of the sounds from within. In the day, it was the grunts and groans and earth-pounding feet of the Titans, those mindless monsters she never wanted to become again. During the night, it was the howls and growls and struggle of wild animals that prowled around as the Titans slept. They were full of dangers, full of nightmares, and full of death—and she'd her fill of all that for _two_ lifetimes, and wasn't so keen on revisiting those times anytime soon.

… Not that it was up to her to decide.

The boy's jaw swayed as he turned to look at her, his vocal cords closing and opening like an insect's mandibles. No sound came out expect one short higher-pitched, blood spurting wheeze, but Ymir could hear his words in her head because his screams would never go away. He was a part of her, and as she replied to him, constantly asked herself the question as she stood reluctantly on the precipice looking down onto one of these forests of giant trees: what was her purpose?

Why was she reborn, spirited away from the nightmare which had consumed all the mindless others like her? That this boy had to die so she may live again? She felt her name was only the beginning in a long, estranged history, because, after all, there was _power_ in a name.

* * *

Sitting up in the middle of the night, wrapped in a blanket from the last village she passed through, having taken refuge in a hollowed out tree-trunk shortly after finding her way inside this latest forest of giant trees, Ymir was awoken to a sudden boom of thunder, accompanied by an unwelcome bout of rain. The boy was gone again. Pulling her blanket closer around her shoulders, she peered into the distance, wary of what lurked in the undergrowth, then up at the treetops. The canopy was in this particular forest that no light, let alone rain, reached the forest floor. Perpetual darkness enveloped her, and in the gloom she was reminded yet again of a certain battlefield from her past that she kept being returned to.

The barbed wire. The bodies of children all around. The rifle in her hands. Of a woman's joyous smile and beckoning hand, juxtaposed by fresh corpses torched black and being thrown in with so many others piled high in a mass grave behind her.

Venturing out, she walked the forest floor until she came to it: that deep, dark place, strewn with those charred corpses, what was left of their rotten, maggot-ridden flesh hanging off their blackened bones, wrapped in tattered, bullet-chewed uniforms that one might've been blue, or grey, now soiled red.

There, in-between the thunder which continued to crash, she heard something behind her and spun. The boy had reappeared, but this time there was someone else with him. _That woman_.

Ymir instinctively backed away in fear. A dread overtook her because, yes, there _was_ power in a name, and she didn't want to think what the woman's might be. Only, just the same as she surmised the things previously unknown and questioned by her would be revealed, the words, phrases, and symbols of her past, through these fragmented memories too would she remember that woman's—and the boy's—name, like her own, and thus more about her past. So, she swallowed her fear and stepped forward, approaching the woman and standing before her, shaking like a wet and wounded dog with its tail between its legs.

The woman opened her heart to her, and Ymir fell into her arms, burying her face into her breasts. Caring and kind, the woman stroked her hair and whispered to her, telling her that everything was going to be alright. That there was nothing to be afraid of. Though, that was a _lie_. No amount of comforting embrace nor soothing tone would hide the bloodthirst behind the woman's words—that _hunger_ , hidden underneath the mask of an angel skinned alive, of the _devil_ disguised.

Yes, this woman _was_ the nightmare.

She _was_ the battlefield.

But, if she wanted to know her purpose for being reborn, Ymir would have to accept the woman. Brave the nightmare. Traverse the battlefield. Strike down the devil and emerge victorious upon the other side.

She looked up into that face, so very kind. She smiled, said okay, before like an infant in her mother's womb, now a child vying for her mother's love.

That was when the façade ended.

The woman's angelic face melted away, taking her left eye along with it, showing the lidless socket. Her smile became a scowl, the back row of her teeth peeking through the gaping hole of shrapnel-mangled tissue and bone in her upper cheek beneath on that same side. Then, her everything disintegrated, slipping through her fingertips.

Ymir moved her hands toward her chest, and fell to her knees, then curled up on the spot where the woman had just been. She rolled over on her back and was left staring at not the thick canopy of a forest of giant trees, but a clear blue sky full of large, round-shaped objects in the sky, peppered by clouds of smoke and the hammering of artillery as she found herself sprawled on the ground, pulled back into the mud and the blood and the stench of that battlefield she knew well but never left the trenches until now. And unto there she sank, the battlefield a muffled quake to her shellshocked ears, before a hand reached down and saved her, only to push her once more into the fray.

… It was the terrible day she'd her first taste of combat. The one who saved her had been the woman, and at the end of it, the two of them standing there in front of those many fallen from that day, did the soldiers surrounding them chant amidst their victory, and it was then that Ymir learned the woman's name.

 _Hail, Helos!_

 _Hail, Helos!_

 _Hail, Helos!_

* * *

" _... Hail, Helos."_

Ymir opened her eyes. She must've blacked out again, touching the back of her head, and hoping she didn't crack open her skull. She ran her fingers over the crease from the last time, but it was gone. Mended like it never happened, and she frowned. All of her wounds have disappeared overtime, regardless of their severity, and she still didn't know why besides it having to do with her rebirth. Though, there was one thing about it she was acutely aware of: the pain. A gift that came with a cost, and coupled with the pain induced from her lost memories, sapped her strength away, leaving her fatigued and unable to do much until it healed. Vulnerable. Helpless.

The last time, she barely managed to drag herself into a place to hide before the sun rose, and quickly tried to get a hold of her surroundings, until she realized she was no longer on the forest floor, but inside a cave.

She was lying on a soft bed of leaves, and could see a light somewhere just outside her field of vision and raised her head. A young boy was gawking at her from afar, peeking from a corner. She cradled her head. Shook it back and forth, then focused back on the boy—but he'd vanished. Was she just hallucinating again?

"About time you were awake," a voice said.

Her eyes were still adjusting to the darkness within the cave. Ymir turned to the direction of the voice. A woman stood behind her. Around her above and below were these pointed rocks that looked like teeth inside of a Titan's mouth closing in. She appeared to be holding something over her shoulder. A stick?

"Don't know what you _thought_ you were doing out there, but I can tell what you _were_ doing. And it wasn't _smart_ , rolling around and yelling like that in the rain. How did you survive out there, being that stupid? Hah?"

Her features were grim, hair cut unevenly short, crudely as if by a knife, brandishing old scars along her muscular forearms and, though her movements were somewhat delayed as she set the stick down, her eyes were bright and intense, betraying her youthfulness.

" _Ada._ "

Ymir hesitated. Then, she opened her mouth, struggling to get the words out though she'd spent so much time saying it back to herself alone. "Y.. m… Ym…" She stopped, closed her mouth, swallowed, took a breath deep, and tried again, " _Ymir._ "

"Well, Ymir, you're one lucky kid." Ada crossed her arms, leaning against the cave wall. "Taki should be back later, so in the meantime I'm in charge."

"... Taki?" Ymir asked.

"Our leader," Ada answered. "Just wait. She'll be here. Get some rest. Gonna be a long day."

Lying back down, Ymir placed her hands over her stomach and gazed up at the ceiling of the cave, unsure what was to come next, but she didn't care, just relieved that she'd found _people_ again. She wasn't alone anymore. And the thought of what her life had been up until now, those many years of torment, stuck as one of those monsters, a monster she never wanted to ever be again, brought tears to her eyes. Before she knew it, she was crying—she didn't have to live in fear anymore, and, in the moment, the damp, safe silence that followed was the greatest comfort in the entire world.


	13. Sticks And Stones And

**Chapter 12: Sticks And Stones And**

In two years the military would start their next Training Corps. She had to be ready. In preparation, she would do more work around the farm, build up her strength. Alongside this, remove _Historia_ far from her current state of mind, and develop her persona as Krista further. A monumental task, but if she wanted to succeed, this is what she must do. Historia needed to die, and be reborn.

In order to do that, she found herself back in Isolde's study, in the late night.

The first undertakings to cull the refugees, so a courier who'd traveled all the way from Fuerth District and heading to Mitras, didn't say but was relayed back to them as such by Isolde, were being made by the Royal Government. Which meant their long days spent doing twice the usual workload around the farm would start to come to an end sooner. Which meant more time spent to indulge in whatever free-time Isolde gave them. Which meant, for Historia, a means to explore the study in-depth.

And it was one day when work was slow that she was able to get away from it for a time, using a stool to reach the higher places on the shelves that she couldn't before, thereby opening a whole new chest, a wealth that she'd never the chance to have until now, for her mind to hoard.

It took her several days after to read through the majority of what books she found, her fingers bandaged from repeated cuts because of how fast she turned their pages. Something that Isolde teased her for, telling her she'd grow a head too big for her shoulders if she kept going at the pace she was. _But I'm glad to see someone enjoys to read as much as I do_ , the old woman had said bemusingly. Isolde's love was a small comfort in the world Historia knew, and just that. She couldn't stay. She couldn't replace Isolde's daughter nor act like another in turn. The dream of a peaceful existence constantly tugged at her heart at night, but the carriage driver's hand tugged harder. She killed the man in her sleep over and over again, watching the blood seep off her hand, down her wrist, onto the ground and shattered glass. Stabbed his throat, again and again and again and _again_ , until morning came. Then, she thought of her mother, begging for her life. Of her father, sending her away. The weeks being rode around, forced from place to place, touched and defiled and raped, until nothing was enough.

And that was how she knew that it was only just that—because her most comforting moment was when nothing was enough, where she finally stared down upon the carriage driver's lifeless, convulsing corpse lying on the dirt road, covered in his own blood, and knew, for the very first time, that she was more than _nothing_.

And that nobody—not even Isolde—was ever going to change that.

She took a book from one of the top shelves, and blew on its cover.

The plethora of medical knowledge wasn't the only reading material that Isolde's study had to offer. It also held on its shelves a colorful assortment of books related to the Titans. Many were simple stories written down from the mouth of old wives, of legends and tall-tales for frightening misbehaving children, but some were first and secondhand eyewitness accounts from before The Fall—one of which caught her rapt attention, that she held in her hands now. It was entitled _Titan's Son_ and detailed the adventures of a boy born from the belly of a Titan and locked away, or so claimed, and the girl who taught him about the world then set him free.

Together, they braved many perils.

One such peril was the boy's harrowing encounter with a Titan outside the Wall, face to face with what could only be of a special kind because the author had given it a name: _Ogre_.

Another was the pair's involvement with the messy internal affairs between the Scouting Legion, the military's misfits, and the Military Police Brigade, the military's elite, that had boiled over from years of wasted resources and even less to show for them—an issue that she discovered was continued to still be debated over today, when she'd asked Isolde.

Others included the various attempts on the boy's life that were thwarted by his friends or their help in the efforts of a man named Angel to create a tool to effectively combat the Titans.

Though, above all, it was the girl's struggle that went on to barely be mentioned within its pages that intrigued Historia the most. That resonated with she, herself, and her own plight.

On the surface, they shared much.

Both the girl and she were the daughters of a noble household, had a lust for literature, fathers obsessively single-minded, selfish bastards, and when trouble came knocking on their doors, did what had to be done to protect their legacies. But, that was where the similarities came to their end.

While the girl was the daughter of a wealthy, self-made merchant, she was of a broke, washed-up disgrace. The girl loved fantastical tales, of the world beyond the Walls, but Historia cared for the practical, with her mind seated closer to home. Whereas this girl's father looked to the future, murdered by cultists, hers dwelled on the past, murdered by the Royal Government. And, when life as she knew it drowned in its own blood, the girl fled to help another and rely on others, though when Historia fled her only thought was to rely on one person, and one person only: _herself_.

A thought that still rang true, at least for the time being.

She sank her teeth into her bottom lip, sucking in the particularly cold night's chilling air through her closed mouth, remembering the kids whose parents mocked her father, harassing her in turn. Of her mother, who turned a blind eye to her daughter's suffering and let her get pelted on the streets, shutting herself indoors and rarely seeing the light of day because she was afraid. _Always_ afraid. Lost in her own tiny, miserable world. Hoping that if she ignored everyone and everything not inside it's sphere of imaginary solitude that her troubles would just go away. Her mother died because she willing closed her eyes, plugged her ears, silenced her heart, and _caged_ her mind from the truth. That nothing mattered unless you made something out of it. Grasped it with your own two hands and never let go. That was why her mother died—not because she loved a man like father nor gave birth to a bastard, but the simple, appalling fact that she did _nothing_ about them. The one moment her mother actually did, was when she fought against that knife drawn across her throat, when she stopped being a victim and started to live. A moment that'd arrived too late.

Ignorant and timid and weak. That was her mother. That is who she would have to become. Except, she couldn't. She didn't want to be anything like her mother. And that was the moment she thought once again of the girl in the book, Sharle. She had to be more like Sharle, that was it—that was how she would carry herself from now on. Not the terrifying wolf, but the shy sheep. The smallest, most vulnerable sheep, who hide among the herd. Who helped others, and relied on them just the same. Yes, a girl like Sharle is who Historia—no, _Krista_ , ought to be.


	14. Broken Bones

**Chapter 13: Broken Bones**

Seated in the mayor's office, Rita was mediating citizen disputes, work normally reserved for the staff of the Royal Government. Except, seeing as they had disappeared and left no one capable for the task, there was no other choice except to do it herself. For that, she'd read up on all the previously useless documents and papers in the District hall, learning nearly not enough that may as well be nary at all to successfully traverse the peoples' problems, though for the past few weeks she'd been forcefully committing herself to it now that Amanda was up and able.

In the beginning, she'd tried to convince herself this was because it was a necessity if she needed to change, but from the moment her best friend strapped her boots back on she became the one everyone was looking to even while Rita still held senior rank and Amanda herself didn't care for the role. No, it wasn't a necessity—she could've passed the task on to Ducio, who was currently at her side now, who was constantly going above and beyond with a quick mind to match—and it wasn't that it would help her change—rather than being out there, on patrol, clearing up the streets, the only things she fought here were the sores on her behind and a lack of sleep from long, restless hours stuck in a much too large chair—but because _she_ was the acting commander. Because it was her duty, to see it done. Not Amanda, not Ducio, nor anybody else. That it set an example, a standard all others after her should strive to meet, lest she fall.

Because, at the end, duty was all that mattered.

And now, warm air streaming through open windows coupled with the faint afternoon sunlight, Rita was beginning to think she'd never change as previously thought.

On the other side of the desk stood two middle-aged women engaged in a shouting match. One was abnormally thin, with an oversized chest that appeared to weigh heavily on her back, hunched forward slightly. The other was short and chubby, with frightfully greasy long hair tied back by a cloth who's posture wasn't any better from a lifetime of working a, likely, labor-intensive job. Although they bore no physical resemblance to each other, by way of hurled insults back and forth, firing spit into the air and catching Rita in the crossfire, the fact that they were siblings couldn't be more apparent.

"I'm telling you, you lost all claim when you left town!" the short and chubby woman—the older of the two—spat, jabbing her finger into her sister's bosom.

"You left first!" the thin woman barked back, slapped the other's finger aside.

The older sister huffed, crossing her flabby arms. "Don't be ridiculous. You should hear yourself! Just upped and left us, first chance you had! You _abandoned_ us!"

"It's not like I was leaving you!" the younger sister said with a rolling of the eyes as she threw up her hands. Her chest jostled up and down on her wiry frame.

"Oh, but you did! Didn't spare us a single thought!"

"Dad said we had to go! But I _was_ thinking of you."

"Uh huh, sure!"

"It's true, dammit! I looked after him! Stayed with him all the way to the end. Even had to see what I did… The things I saw..." the younger sister's voice trailed off then, her eyes glossing over no doubt recounting a gruesome memory as her mind seemed to close itself off for the briefest of moments until it was quickly torn asunder by her older sister's ear-drum splitting, rising voice.

"And how the hell do I know that's not just another _lie_?" the older sister accosted. "That you didn't really just left him to die?"

"Why, you—!"

" _Ahem_."

Having listened longer than she liked, Rita finally decided to intercede. Ducio was diligently jotting down everything being said. She cleared her throat.

"So let me get this straight: you, the younger sister, were living with your father. You, the older sister, had married and moved away from home." Both sisters nodded in unison. "Okay. Then, when the evacuation began, you, the younger, left Quinta with your father. Is that right so far?"

"Yes, and leaving us behind," hissed the older sister.

By "us" Rita assumed the woman referred to herself, her husband, and their children.

The younger sister let out an exasperated sigh and turned her head around. "Didn't I tell you that's not what happened? What else could we do? Make the trip to your place? In the middle of all that… that chaos? Our house was a mess."

"I'm not surprised, the way you tried grabbing anything remotely valuable."

"That was Dad's—"

Rita held up a hand. "Please. Let me just… During the evacuation, you and your father were attacked by Titans… yes?"

"Right, but I came back. Our wagon was destroyed, I lost everything. And Dad was killed!"

Rita's mind went back to that day, the overturned wagon, the father trapped underneath the horse and his little girl whom she'd saved. Just the same, the sisters' father had been attacked by a Titan, no doubt eaten alive. Without needing the grimsly details, the younger sister must've witnessed the entire thing, a Garrison soldier having rescued her, and she'd barely made it back to Quinta with her life.

Remembering that little girl's unresponsiveness afterward, similarly the younger sister must still be in some kind of shock about the ordeal. And, yet, here she was, locked in a fierce battle with her older sister who'd remained in Quinta, over the ownership of their father's belongings that still resided at home.

Such greed. Such spirit. Rita was both repelled and impressed in equal measure. Also, compelled by it, as tears started at the corner of the younger sister's eyes and her face crinkled, showing her ugliness under an otherwise beautiful, blemish-free complexion.

She bawled at the top of her lungs. "After what I had to go through! To be left with nothing… How, how, how could anyone just expect me to accept that?"

And, yet, the situation wasn't so clear-cut as it seemed.

The woman, essentially, wanted compensation. Some material benefit to give meaning to the horror and desperation she'd had to experience. Or perhaps, to fill the hole rendered in her heart. It appeared she had been single her entire life. Having devoted herself to her father, it was possible she had never owned anything of value that she could truly say was hers. The older sister was, in her own way, desperate too. So much that she couldn't even properly mourn her father's death. Instead, she was willing to come to physical blows with her very own sister over his worldly possessions.

And while Rita could sympathize with both of their plights, the whole of Quinta was still in crisis, and she couldn't spend all her time dealing with private matters.

Besides the cost of necessities like food and water were soaring, the mobs from all sides were beginning to see the Garrison as the military force it was supposed to be, and as a result were banding together against her and the other soldiers, which wasn't what she'd meant by uniting to survive.

… As much as she knew it was a necessity, her duty _did_ extend outside this office, and it was these two that finally helped her decide about it: nothing would change if she continued to stay behind a desk. Nothing would change, if she let Amanda do all the hard work. Thus...

"Ladies. I will now hand you my decision as the Garrison's acting commander." Rita hardened her tone. "The decision is only for the interim, until a suitable official is appointed by the Royal Government. Understood?"

"... What?"

"That's a fair decision, I guess."

They faced her—the older first, then the younger—and fixed her with bewildered, but defiant stares. At least they were willing to listen. Though, until she got down there in the streets and found out for herself, she didn't know if it was just her title as acting commander or the blades hung around her waist that had some effect.

Rita took a deep breath to gather her thoughts, then opened her mouth to speak again. "For now, I request that you maintain the status quo. You, the younger sister, will look after all assets left behind by your father. Their value will be calculated when my replacement arrives, so don't go and sell any of it please. Once the assets have been valued, we'll start proceedings to divide them evenly between the two of you."

Of course she realized she was simply passing the real decision-making onto a non-existent Royal Government staff—who'd also raided the vaults and storehouses of the District hall during the evacuation and taken everything with them just as Doris suspected they'd do—but it was all she could honestly do at the moment. It was all she _cared_ to do.

"So, you're just going to assign someone to keep watch, then, I assume?" the older sister cautioned straight away. "Because if she does go off and sell anything…"

"I'm not going to sell anything off!"

"Yes," Rita lied through her teeth without pause. "Soldiers will be monitoring the house. I'll make sure they aren't conspicuous, so they don't get in the way. Agreed?"

The older sister snorted. "I suppose…"

"You're happy then, big sister?"

"Oh, don't sound so puffed up!"

The older sister squared her shoulders then left without exchanging another glance at any of them, but appeared to more or less satisfied with the outcome. The younger sister let go of another sigh, thanked them, and followed suit. The two of them looked more alike from behind.

Once they were completely gone from sight, Rita slumped over the desk and exhaled a sigh herself.

"... And that was the last for today." Ducio declared, sorting her sheets and getting up. "Good work, Commander!"

Despite her tiredness, Rita managed a thin smile. "Thanks. You too." She felt her heart and mind lighten a little. Then, summoning all her remaining willpower, she got to her feet and straightened her back.

Going over to the window and noting the black and gray clouds overlapping in the distant sky, she was eager to find out which were true, thumbing the handle of one of her blades.

* * *

As of late, the majority of the mobs were taking action in an area over several blocks not far from her family's business. Recent reports told of a particularly violent gang of 3rd class citizens—laborers, workers, the less fortunate and poorly adjusted types of society—who'd previously sacked the many businesses lining the street she, Ducio, and several others she'd brought along were currently walking down, who had since holed themselves in these shops and thereby established a foothold against the Garrison and those in the 2nd and 1st classes who'd already submitted to their authority. One of the last holdouts, and while it was Amanda's duty to weed them out, but she was occupied with other riots and looters across the District, and with their numbers so limited, Rita and those in the District hall were the only available personnel capable of dealing with them at current. So, the opportunity presenting itself, she'd taken up the task and, this evening, she was determined to know if she were truly qualified to be the acting commander or not. She also feared for her parents, and hoped to turn that fear into conviction to be more like Amanda, to be more like the leader Quinta needed her to be.

As a precaution, she had Ducio fetch guns for everyone without the intention to actually use them unless as a last resort. Most of the soldiers with her were youths from the 103th Trainee Corps. Fresh recruits that all seemed younger than even Ducio, likely next to no training under their belts. But, if things did come to the use of firearms, _anyone_ could shoot a gun.

So, to the apprehension of a steady influx of onlookers, Rita pushed her way past the rubberneckers and approached the first building on the suspect list that was, as suspected, a shop whose proprietors had evacuated, coming before a burly man who's forearms were nearly twice the size of her head. The man subsequently blocked her way further inside.

Peering around him, Rita took note of others inside and counted their numbers, then clenched her teeth. She'd underestimated just how many of them there'd be.

"... I am Rita Iglehaut, acting commander of the Garrison Regiment here in Quinta," she stated, loudly. Seeing the others farther in stir, roused by the sound of her voice, she started to unsheath one of her blades. _Dammit_. Her grip on the hilt was tighter than she'd imagined it'd be, blood boiling up to her ears as the adrenaline kicked in. _Perhaps it wouldn't be enough, after all_. "Our reports say there have been a number of transgressions in this area and I ask you surrender yourselves to the full extent of the law."

"Or what?" the burly man on watch sneered back as he stepped closer, leaning over her menacingly. "Well?" Though, before she could answer, he continued. "You should put that thing away before you hurt yourself, _girly_." Then, he shoved her aside, calling the others out, likely for another raid somewhere in the District and, as they ignored her presence one by one, and everyone else gave them a wide berth—Ducio and the others included—Rita lowered her head in humiliation.

A humiliation that everyone around her could see.

In that moment, Ducio put a comforting hand on her shoulder, telling her that it was for the best this time—there was little they could do without somebody getting hurt, maybe even badly, and that they should just leave it to Amanda to deal with instead.

The suggestion pierced her heart.

In her mind's eye, she saw Amanda back as they were during their trainee days', standing among the top ten of their graduating class and she herself just one of many in the faceless, gawking crowd.

Her grip tightened further still.

Eyes on her boots, Wilco's dried blood as a reminder of what she fought for, her duty as a member of the Garrison and now as the acting commander of Quinta's Garrison Regiment, she couldn't… She couldn't just continue to sit by and let Amanda do the heavier lifting, the dirtier things they didn't teach in the Corps. It was her duty, and _nobody_ else's.

Shrugging Ducio off, she raised her head back up and extended her blade toward the burly man and his gang. "Hey!" she shouted, wincing at the quiver in her voice. "All of you, stop where you are!"

And hers alone.

The gang did as told, and turned to face her.

The burly man, whom Rita could now appropriately surmise was their leader, started back. The sneer was gone from his face, defiance set in its place. He came within lethal distance of her blade, unfazed and unimpressed. But, before he could open his mouth to speak, she ordered Ducio and the others to raise their rifles. They did so reluctantly. Fearfully. And rightly so.

"Big mistake, girly," the man said, air escaping from his nostrils like steam from a Titan. Though, compared to those monsters, he wasn't anything to be frightened over. Yet, her wrist shook, and her legs trembled. Yet, she was afraid. Only, not _enough_.

"Please, surrender peacefully. Or otherwise we will be forced to—"

Next she knew, Rita was facing the sky, a ringing in her ears so violent she couldn't hear herself think, let alone register the muffled, frantic screams that seemed so close to her but so far away in the same space. Her vision was fuzzy, blotches of blue and bursts of red, twinkles of black. Her body felt extremely heavy as she tried to move, finding it difficult to breath like her chest were caving in on itself.

When she finally did manage to move, roll her body over, the first thing she noticed as her visible began to clear was her sword. It'd been knocked from her hand, and she didn't so much feel as see her fingers close around it. That was when the ringing subsided, and her ears popped, pain exploding across the right side of her face. The screams were coming from the crowd. She raised her head. People were scrambling, citizens and her own soldiers alike, from the gang. She could only see out of her left eye, but spotted one of them amidst the mayhem, surrounded. Elbowed in on all sides, his rifle had been torn from his grasp and he was being stripped of the rest of his equipment. Calling out to him, she coughed blood on the street, clutched her chest, then threw up.

Planting her sword between the cobblestones, she attempted to stand, only to falter and collapse on her knees. Hunching over, she gagged and spat and sputtered.

"A _very_ big mistake."

The burly man, their leader, loomed over her. He held one of the trainee's rifles in his large, calloused hands. He pointed the muzzle down at her, the barrel dark and ominous and spelling out her death, her doom, finger off the trigger, and opened his mouth to say something else but the only thing that escaped his lips was a bout of surprise. The front of his shirt became wet with blood, and his free hand hovered over the area of his chest where the wound was.

Then, the top of his head exploded.

Rita's world turned crimson, as bits of brain and bone splattered her, what remained of the man's head smoking. His lifeless body crumbled forward. She put her hands up to stop it from crushing her, struggling in vain as her knees buckled and gave way, his open mouth and lolling tongue so close she could smell his gunpowder-coated, stale breath and glimpse his yellowed, shattered teeth, before it abruptly stopped and fell to the side.

Standing in his place was Ducio, and his flabbergasted, anguished, blood-drained and blood-stained face was the last thing she saw clearly before her vision waned, dimmed, then completely failed her and everything became darker than the darkest night and she passed out.


	15. To Quinta

**Chapter 14: To Quinta**

The villagers' corpses lay strewn over the main road and the fields nearby, their limbs severed, bones and viscera exposed, slathered with translucent mucus.

"Titan spit," Bernhardt remarked.

This was the first village they'd come across after multiple fruitless encounters that showed fresh signs of struggle—well, days old rather than weeks worth—built around a bridge crossing the river. Relatively large, it had once acted as a transport hub due to its position intersecting two main routes between the Districts of Quinta and Fuerth. Wooden houses lined the main street, while the thatched roofs of various, more remote, log cabins dotted the grasslands and hills surrounding it.

The Titans gorged themselves on people. Chewed raw flesh and bone. But no Titans appeared to be in the vicinity, and Mathias couldn't help but wonder just where all of them had gone. His eyes burned from the stench in the air, reeking of excrement and something reminiscent of vinegar. A putrid, sickenly sweet smell of the advanced stages of decomposition, many of the bodies were bloated. Gaseous intestines. Swollen tongues. Bulging eyes. Alabaster skin.

This day's march of the rescue force came to a halt before the village threshold. Progressing any farther would mean crushing the bodies under horse and wagon. The commanding officer seemed to harbor qualms about doing so, green in the face, until he ultimately ordered them forward. Wheels climbed onto corpses, pulverizing them with loud cracks and ghastly crunches. Puss-filled pops and rotted, mashed guts. Like stepping on branches and tea being left far too long to boil. The sensations rode up through the floor to where Mathias sat, and he gagged.

Bernhardt slapped him on the back. "Show a little fortitude, lad!"

Once clear of the corpses, here and there wagon drivers began pulling their horses to a stop. Volunteers jumped down from their wagons, splitting up into two groups to search the bodies and the buildings. The majority of the soldiers accompanying them remained on their horses so they could keep alert, and to set the wagons running if something went wrong. And yet the wagons were too closely packed for that, liable to crash into each other if they all tried to flee at once. Someone shrieked after tripping over one of the corpses.

"Shall we try searching somewhere else?" Bernhardt called out to their wagon driver.

The soldier shot him a suspicious look. Now that he didn't have the luxury, the man wasn't slumped over like all the other times and looked more the part of the soldier he was supposed to be instead of the slob Mathias first pegged him as. Nikki had given him the nickname Baggy-pants but his real name was Leon.

"The buildings are crowded together. The Titans would've moved through this area first." Bernhardt motioned his chin down one of the side roads. "We're here to find survivors. I think we might do better over there. The house on top of that hill." He pointed to it. "See it? Looks like there could be people inside that one."

The soldier gazed at the structure. Whether or not there were survivors, there _were_ far fewer bodies on the ground. Though, Mathias doubted the smell would be any better.

Leon nodded, pulling his eyebrows into a frown. It meant he had to get off the wagon and actually participate in the search himself. He couldn't leave them without an escort, and glanced at the soldier in charge of Jarratt's wagon, who understood Bernhardt's intention and was suggesting the same. He pulled on the reins of the horse and turned the wagon around.

"Fine, but don't expect me to do much," he said, patting his pot-bellied stomach. It sloshed from all the booze he'd drunk earlier. A gift he shared with Nikki, though he had so far refused to turn it into a competition. _It ain't a race_ , was what he'd said on the matter.

Trampling and riding over bodies as they went, the two wagons proceeded past the row of buildings and up the hill. They came to a stop at the house not long thereafter, which consisted of a main building, a barn, and an outhouse. There were no corpses. And contrary to what he thought, the smell wasn't worse. In fact it was almost entirely gone.

"Hunh, umf!" Leon hopped to the ground, rubbing his back. "Well, let's take a look."

Urged on, they stepped down from their wagons.

Underfoot Mathias felt the earth and grass. Saw the flowers thriving. Smelled the fragrance of the wide-open world. Life continued to bloom though everything around it died. He had the profound thought that long after humanity is gone, whether it be by the Titans as their end or by some other means, life would go on—and it was in moments like these, contrasted with the death and decay, like back on the main road and fields, and suffering, like back in Fuerth in the refugee camps, at Shiganshina, Quinta, that he wished to be able of bringing the same to the people within the Walls. Use his influence, his standing in society, to serve the less fortunate instead of having the humiliation of being bossed by men like his father because he lacked the fortitude to go against the flow he'd been strung along his entire life. A life of comfort and luxury which he hoped he was making up for now—and, after he got to Quinta, rescued Rita, disassociated himself with Bernhardt and his gang, would work hard to correct.

"Ah—how we underlings must suffer!" Bernhardt said, not the slightest bit disturbed by anything they'd seen on their journey thus far.

Together, the five of them headed towards the house. Mathias stepped into the main building. Surprisingly, or rather, miraculously, the place appeared to have been used recently. Days ago, in fact.

They'd never intended to look for survivors, but only take for themselves what supplies the residents had left behind, and his heart jumped in his chest at the chance that this could be the day they actually found someone alive out here, and ventured into the kitchen. A place like this was bound to have all assortment of cured meats, cheeses, oils, and alcohol, though a lot of the food stuffs were missing and it looked like whoever had been here, cleared out in a rush.

He knew they didn't have the time to be making a serious search, that they needed to get clear of the rescue force as soon as possible and make haste to Quinta, but after days spent passing empty village after empty village, mingling with the other volunteers and trying to make an honest effort amidst the chaos, this was the first real sign that people still survived. Which meant that it was all the more likely that Rita, safe behind the gates of Quinta, wasn't dead. And while what impatience he had from the start of the journey had since worn thin, his vigor was renewed at this revelation.

"Everyone! Over here!" a shout erupted from outside. It was Jarratt.

Nikki pulled her head out from a storage bin. "Huh? Someone say something?"

"I think so."

"Righty-oh," she said. Slapping him on the shoulder, she hurried out. "Catch up!"

Mathias rubbed his shoulder as he followed after her. Her hits hadn't gotten any lighter. The voice seemed to come from somewhere inside the barn. Everyone was gathered there, even Leon, who despite being in charge hadn't moved from beside the wagon.

"Wow…"

It was a stable, not a barn, and tied up within an enclosed space were two imposingly big cows. Both the feed and water troughs were empty, suggesting they hadn't been fed in a while. The air was vile. A mountain of excrement had piled up beneath the two animals and Mathias had to face away from the stench as it overwhelmed his senses.

Pinching his nose, he could still taste it in his mouth but tried his best to ignore it as he watched Jarratt and Bernhardt going right up against the enclosure, seemingly enthralled by the animals and unaware of the offensively repugnant smell.

"This is an amazing find,"the soldier in charge of Jarratt's wagon said, wide-eyed.

Nikki put a finger to her temple and scratched. "Er, this is enough for… how many days?"

Forever. At least that's what Suzanne would have said, if she were here. _When I was younger than you I survived on nothing but bugs in the dirt, and scraps dropped from the sewer grates in Mitras. If I'd had even a little of what you've been privy to, I'd never left the Underground._ To be in the employ of the Kramer family was a fortune to her that was greater than all the wealth his family possessed. To the refugees starving in Fuerth, these two cows were a fortune.

"Think we could transport them?" the soldier asked aloud.

"Think about about,"Bernhardt calmly pointed out. "They're too fat. The wagons won't hold them, and even if they could, we'd be too slow to outrun any Titans that might appear."

"We could let them go, if that happened."

"And how many seconds would you waste doing that? How many tens of seconds? If a seven-meter class takes on step for every second, how much would it gain on us in, say, five seconds?"

"Damn." The soldier's hand tightened over the hilt of one of the blades around his waist.

"Be lighter if we butchered them," Jarratt said, extending a hand through the enclosure to stroke one of the cow's heads.

"... Butcher them?"

He simply shrugged. "Used to be in the business. 'Course if we do that we wouldn't be able to milk them and all. But if we take the meat and the skin, got rid of everything else…"

"That's…" Bernhardt brushed his hand over his chin.

The soldier cut in. "How long?"

Jarratt looked back. "Two hours."

"Two hours per cow, you mean." Bernhardt corrected.

"Butchering the cow, huh…"the soldier trailed off.

"First we'll need to get them outside. It's difficult to move in here, and the stink won't have anywhere to go," Jarratt stated.

"Get him outside?"Mathias found himself asking.

"'Course." Jarratt was already opening the gate to the enclosure. He nodded over at a rope wrapped around a wooden peg. "Fetch that. Never know when they might struggle. And, see? Just loop it around the neck, like so…"

Everyone followed his instructions and led the first cow out of the stable. Leon had given them the slip partway through, making a beeline for the outhouse to relieve himself. For a man as lazy as he was, Leon sure was fast on his feet when he wanted to be.

The cow ambled forward, shaking its head like it was being tickled by the sunlight.

They encircled it.

"Would someone pass me a gun?" Eyes fixed on the cow's Jarratt turned his right hand so the palm faced upward.

Nikki took her rifle from the leather belt slung over her back and held it toward him. "Here."

"Perfect."Jarratt took it and positioned the muzzle against the cow's forehead, right above the eyes as it slathered its long tongue around its mouth, showing no awareness of its impending doom.

That was when they heard a scream. Ear-shattering and panic-stricken. It came from the direction of the outhouse.

 _Leon._

They all turned to see him with his hands pants around his knees, staring in white-faced horror at something above them, and following his gaze, saw it, too.

A _Titan_.

The creature had both hands clamped on the roof of the main building. Showing itself from only the nose up, its enormous human-like face peeked over, watching them with an almost perversely joyous glint in its eyes.

"When did it…!"

"How didn't we notice…?!"

Jarratt lifted the barrel of the rifle, but Bernhardt outstretched a large hand and and stopped him.

"Don't fire!"he commanded.

"... Boss?!"

"What are you waiting for?!" the soldier shrieked, all blood gone from his face. "Shoot it!"

Moving as silent as a cat, surprisingly light on his feet for a man so big, Bernhardt closed on him and suddenly threw his arms around the soldier, whispered into his ear then unsheathed a blade from his waist.

"What ar—?!"

Before the soldier could utter another word, Bernhardt stepped away from him and in that same motion blood gushed from the soldier's neck. It all happened in a split-second, or even less than, and it took Mathias a whole second more to register what the old man had just done, as the slashed soldier's hands clammered at his bloody throat. His arms fell limp before getting halfway. His whole body began to tip forward. By then, Bernhardt had circled to the side. There wasn't a drop on him.

Mathias' own throat trapped shut. He struggled to breath. Too much was happening that he couldn't process quickly enough. For the first time in his eighteen years, he'd seen a Titan up close. For the first time in his eighteen years, a man had been murdered right before his eyes.

Out the corner of his eye he saw Leon make a run for it, holding up his pants for dear life. Klaus was about to give chase when Bernhardt stopped him, too, looking down at the body of the soldier before flicking the sword free of blood.

"This is the opportunity we've been waiting for. I believe the main force has yet to notice the Titan. Unharness the horses. Now we head to Quinta! Everyone, to work!"

Air finally filled Mathias' lungs and he clutched his chest, twisting. He shuddered. The fact that this man was a vicious outlaw, that the others were, too, sunk in with visceral clarity. Forgotten over the course of this journey, he now fumbled around next to his thigh. His shotgun was there, slung in a leather belt. His fingers found the grip, but he couldn't summon enough strength to pull it free as every instinct in his body told he that _he_ was next. But one shout from Bernhardt and he broke from his spell.

"Come on, lad! Hurry it up!" he said, hand on his shoulder pushing him onward as the sound of labored, hungering breath came down from overhead, unusually slow.

The Titan.

The expression on the monster's face was unchanged. It was reaching down now, still wearing the same unnaturally bright look, like that of an infant.

Klaus clicked his tongue. Alongside Nikkie and Jarratt, he ran stumbling for the wagons as Bernhardt urged him to do the same.

"No time for daydreaming, Mathias! Your precious friend awaits!" With the bloodstained blade still in his hand, Bernhardt motioned his eyes upward, glancing back.

Mathias twisted around. The Titan had hauled itself onto the roof of the building without him even noticing. It was crawling in their direction on all fours, the expression on its face now like that of a small child with new toys to play with. The cow bellowed senselessly and backed away, back toward the stable.

"Now, to buy us more time,"Bernhardt said, as again without Mathias having noticed the muscular old man shot something from the side of his hip to pierce one of the Titan's eyes which itself was the size of a human head. The oversized eyeball exploded with a wet pop, and steam funneled out to obscure the bloody cavity. The Titan padded a slugged finger over its ruined eye socket and brought its hand back down to examine it. "Excellent! Haven't lost it!"Bernhardt remarked, singing his own praises.

Mathias' heart pounded in his chest. He was soaked with sweat. Cold. He couldn't stop himself from shaking, and found himself unable to move, staring at the Titan as it pawed at its face, pulled the skin off and exposing the muscle beneath, its expression jubilant as before. Almost as if it was excited, that the wire still lodged in its eye was some new game it hadn't played before. It didn't seem to be in pain.

"Lad. Get ahold of yourself."In a crouch, Bernhardt spent a moment reeling in the wire he'd fired and make quick work of appropriating the Vertical Maneuvering Gear he'd taken from the dead soldier. He got back to his feet in the next instant and took him by the scuff of the neck and pulled and hauled him easily away.

The Titan was still moving as they ran, heaving its naked, dumpy frame over the roof the stables. Large, maybe seven meters tall. The cloud of steam around its eye was beginning to clear and a fresh, round, glossy eye emerged anew from underneath. Its huge frame slide off the roof and crashed face first into the ground. It cranked its arms around, the muscles in its enormous shoulders tensing, as it then continued toward them using only its arms. Crawling.

Bernhardt dragged him relentlessly, and they rounded the corner of the main building just as one of the wagons appeared before them, overshooting before it ground to a halt. Jarratt was at the reins. Klaus and Nikki were in the back.

Jarratt's eyes blinked repeatedly as he took in the sight of the Titan chasing them. "Hop on!"He had tremors in his voice.

Tossing the Gear then Mathias into the wagon, Bernhardt lamented about the horses still being tied to the wagon then changed his tone to chide Mathias himself. "You might not weight much, but I wouldn't say you're light as a feather!"

Mathias felt a sharp jab of pain when he'd hit the floor, but that, too, was like something happening in some far-off world, as the wagon tilted as Bernhardt clambered in beside him and he looked back at the Titan as they sped off, knowing in his gut that, no, this was real, and it was a living nightmare.


	16. Cage

**Chapter 15: Cage**

For the second time in a long while, Rita stood still within the doorway to a memory she always used to dream, peering into a dark room where no light tread, at the man slumped against the wall opposite the window, partially hidden behind the table and the chairs—only, this time something was different; this time, the man wasn't alone.

Her younger self was there, holding the small vial in her tiny hand and eyes on the wooden box open at her feet, the contents of which were empty, while a second man—a lanky, bespeckled man—held her other. Rita couldn't see this second man's face, but she immediately knew who he was.

When the young Rita looked up, her face was contorted in pain, tears streaming down her soft, rosy cheeks and he crouched down to look her in the eyes. He smiled, wiped her tears away then straightened back up and turned to face the light.

It was Henning, her father.

He picked up the wooden box. He appeared remorseful and sad, about to cry himself.

She tried to call out to him, but the only thing that came from her lips was an incomprehensible jumble of sounds that may as well have been nothing at all. She moved a hand up toward her face and felt around, coming away with dried blood on the right side, below the temple between the eye and ear. She let her crimson fingers fall, and continued to watch as Henning took her younger self's hand in his again and led her from the room, parting from the doorway to let them pass.

As they melded into the light beyond, Rita looked to the man in the room.

She still couldn't remember his name, and only took one step forward, before hearing a voice call to her from afar. It, too, was a voice she knew.

Her heart thumped, joyous, at the sound of it, and she spun back toward the light, seeing a woman standing there. The light was harsh, blinding the woman's features to her but not the uniform she wore nor the signature green cloak draped around her shoulders, denoting her as a proud soldier in the Scouting Legion.

Her mother.

Her _real_ mother.

Rita's heart stilled. Her breath caught in her throat. Her hesitation vanished, and with tears rolling, she walked forward, reaching out to the figure of the woman who gave birth to her, only to grasp at great, thick clumps of black and green mist, falling through a silhoutte that filled her lungs with soot and ash, lighting her insides as she collapsed on her knees, clutching at her chest.

It was death, and it surrounded her.

Rita heaved, wiping crimson-flecked spit from her chin.

It clung to her clothes.

Longingly looking back at it with watery eyes, she no longer saw the fantasy of a loved one she'd barely known but the reality of a lonely little girl with the weight of the dead upon her shoulders. The shadow of her betters, of the citizens of Quinta, of Wilco, and all the rest.

And, when she woke up, Rita found herself gazing up at the ceiling of her parents' home, with Doris in a chair by her bedside, asleep. It was the middle of the night. They'd finally moved her from the apothecary. Which meant she was well enough now to move freely, so she rose, touching the bandage wrapped around her head with a grimace, guiding her fingertips along the dent in her forehead that was certain to leave behind a scar—a point reminder that she wasn't, in fact, the leader she needed to be. That she wasn't Amanda. That, in her hesitation, her dimwitted moment of thinking that simply because she wore the uniform, others would fall in line accordingly. They would relent, stop disrupting and resisting and altogether causing conflict—that by a simple thrust of her sword that matters could be resolved.

... That she wasn't the leader she _thought_ she needed to be, as her eyes wandered to the door to her room, seeing the soldier she'd ordered to protect her parents, but the leader she never _wanted_ to be.

She took her pendant and gripped it between her fingers, wondering what Mathias would think if he were here, recalling the day she'd left Quinta after her promotion. The only time she'd left Quinta for any length of time in all her eighteen years, and the last time they'd spoken face to face. She imagined he'd tell her continue doing what she thought best. What she thought was right. Even if it meant going against the flow, grinding it down to the foundation if necessary, and rebuilding it anew. The result of his discontent with his family's business practices, harboring on malicious intent for his father, that he sought to change for the better. The plight of others was ever not far from whatever Mathias' current mind, and just one of the few that'd rubbed off on her.

He'd say that her perhaps permanent injury was but one measly scar which paled next to what this meant going forward for the good of the people. That now they would listen, rather than her words fall on deaf ears like his father, or the other businessmen within the Kramer Merchant Association. That she, as acting commander, had the power to do what he couldn't. It was the thread that connected them when they were young, though hers was one of confusion, of mystery, and the unknown and not seeped in lies, deceit, and hate—the pain they'd shared was all they had in common, and their similarities came to their end.

That was where his influence, or in actuality, Suzanne's, ended.

And she was all at once relieved.

She loved Suzanne like a sister, but she also wasn't blind. Suzanne came from the Underground, the sums beneath Mitras, and though she had reformed herself as the chief servant of the Kramer family, her upbringing had no doubt slipped through the cracks with Mathias as a perfect example of what type of recklessness wasn't needed for be it the leader Quinta required; what she felt she _had_ to become.

Her childhood friend harbored a deep, dark fiery resentment of his father and it oftentimes clouded his judgments. It more than not got him into trouble that saw his succession in jeopardy and while in recent years he'd calmed down, the resentment was still there. Just like the plight of others was always at the back of his mind, so too was plight of his own: the death of his mother. Suzanne was using this. Exploiting it. Leading him on, into something dangerous that he couldn't untangle himself. At least that what she remembered, on the day of her promotion. That look in his eyes, the frown on his lips, and Suzanne there, behind his back. In his shadow. Whispering into his ear. Had tried the same with her, but she knew her mother hadn't been—would never be as vile—and her decision to join the Garrison had been her conscious choice to show that. That Suzanne was wrong, and there was goodness within the Walls contrary to what she claimed and if not, Rita herself would strive to be that and _prove_ her wrong.

She wasn't doing this out of the feelings in her heart, but the fist over it. It was her duty to protect the people, to see that everyone was safe and order was restored to Quinta. And it was where her thoughts of Mathias, too, ended and those revolving around the District began.

For the past several days the soldier had been guarding her while she recovered, updating her on the state of affairs within the District and if, of any, news from outside—which, of course, was still none—and through him she learned that Amanda was still rounding up those involved with the incident, complaining about all the reports she was required to file, Ducio was growing increasingly more distraught since his last visit, despite his best attempts to keep together, which further disheartened others who had once looked up to her for guidance—mainly the trainees, though a few citizens also left and decided to throw in their lot with the rioters and the looters who were using it as a rallying call against her—and, most important, as she'd previously hoped, the three sides, 1st, 2nd, and 3rd class citizens, that had formed in the beginning were rapidly disbanding into two groups after becoming aware of the her, and by extension, the military's, recent action.

Yes, her failure to control the situation was the first time they'd used lethal force. The first time they'd killed someone over the riots and transforming the circumstances. Now solely a matter of who backed the military taking over in the name of the King or who favored an independent government free from a single ruler, things would be easier to control. Not that this was how she imagined it would happen, but it was a small victory nonetheless.

Yes. Rita wasn't Amanda. Rita wasn't Suzanne. Rita wasn't Mathias. Rita was Rita. Rita Iglehaut. She would do this _her_ way. Everyone else be damned. While she wasn't as strong as Amanda nor brave as Suzanne or outspoken as Mathias, this bandage wrapped around her head was the first thing she felt she'd done right by herself, and herself alone. No Henning to hide behind. No ghosts to haunt her. Nobody to stop her.

And it felt... _tremendous_.

Looking down at her hand, she moved opened and closed it, making a fist. Her strength was returning. Swinging her legs from her bed, she took care not to wake Doris and eased herself upright, a bit lightheaded but otherwise functional. She was well enough to walk, and ready to take her seat back in the mayor's chair. Leave the streets to Amanda, and continue what she'd been doing, what she was best at, and then some. Using the wall for support, she opened her bedroom door and told the soldier to help her to the District hall because it was time for her to get to work again because they may be cattle, trapped in by these monsters at their gate, but that didn't mean this had to be their cage.

... Though she'd rather not have to suffer for her future successes, if she could help it.


	17. Toil

**Chapter 16: Toil**

"My name, is Krista Lenz. My name, is Krista. My name, is Krista. My name, is Krista…"

Historia frowned in the mirror. It didn't sound convincing enough. Her voice. It was too gruff. She needed to be less gruff. Less cynical, and more… _cheerful_. Happy. She coughed, clearing her throat, and swallowed the fork on her tongue.

Feeling it scrape on the way down, those sharp jabs of a girl mered in the deceit of the world, to stake the one who slept soundly, of the girl who once upon a time a long time ago dreamed of peerless heroes in shining armor and hapless damsels in their need of rescue in the books she oh so loved to read during those innocent years before the dark, lonely nights when her father was away and mother finally asleep, Historia tried again.

... Better.

— _But she wanted it to be_ perfect.

In order for that to happen, she needed to skewer the girl and drag her out of the dark and into the light again kicking and crying because otherwise she couldn't convince herself that she could pull this off.

Otherwise she'd be stuck on this farm—comforting though it was—and be forced herself to live peacefully, ever after. Willingly ignorant. A fool, like her mother, the one person she didn't want to become.

No, with the things she'd seen, the deeds she'd done, all these questions in her head, to give up now would mean this was all for nothing and then she might as well just have had her throat slit alongside her mother's already.

To slay the beast meant exactly that, and if that entailed tearing out the entrails of who she used to be and live inside the remains to be what she wanted, then that was what she must do.

Historia pounded lightly on her chest, spit into the sink, massaged her vocal cords, and _tried again_.

"My name is Krista. Krista Lenz. It's a pleasure to meet you!"

Her frown lessened. It was an improvement. Though, _still_ not perfect. But, a start in the right direction, and looking at her reflection in the mirror, the uglinessness of a girl with little left to lose than a father's squandered legacy, she'd have to do something about that, too. So, fixing her hair, tying it behind her head and out the way, as Krista, besides the sunshine in her voice, by the time the next two years rolled around, her appearance, how she carried herself, and the burden upon her shoulders, would be complete.


	18. Sources and Other

**Sources Used:**

 **(Official)**

 _Attack on Titan_ written and illustrated by Isayama Hajime.

 _Attack on Titan: No Regrets_ written by Gun Snark and illustrated by Suruga Hikaru.

 _Attack on Titan: Before the Fall_ written by Suzukaze Ryō and illustrated by Shibamoto Thores.

 _Attack on Titan: Harsh Mistress of the City_ written by Kawakami Ryō and illustrated by Murata Range.

 _Attack on Titan: Lost Girls_ written by Seko Hiroshi and illustrated by Fuji Ryosuke.

 _Attack on Titan: Wings of Freedom (video game)_ based on the manga written and illustrated by Isayama Hajime.

 _Attack on Titan Guidebook: INSIDE & OUTSIDE_ based on the manga written and illustrated by Isayama Hajime.

 _Attack on Titan Choose Your Path Adventure: Last Stand At Wall Rose_ written by Fujinami Tomoyuki and illustrated by Fuji Ryosuke and Yoshii Tetsu based on the manga written and illustrated by Isayama Hajime.

 _Attack on Titan: End of the World_ written by Asakura Touji based on the manga written and illustrated by Isayama Hajime.

 **(Doujinshi)**

 _A Distant Fragrance_ written and illustrated by Tokawa.

 _MESSENGER_ written and illustrated by Tomo.

 _Story of the Goddess Who Sought Death_ written and illustrated by Kuzumochi Shio.

 _Night at the Hut in the Mountain (and other shorts)_ written and illustrated by tbtbii.

 _Song of Prayer Dedicated to You_ written and illustrated by Poncho.

* * *

 **Rating based upon the source material(s). May change to Mature (M) later on. Story originally started in December of 2012. Restarted February of 2016. Re-published April of 2017. Being re-written and continued as of January 2018. No copyright claims. Etc. etc.**


End file.
